I spot him at the end of the block, waiting for the crosswalk to change.
Picking up my pace, I canter over cracked and pitted concrete, squeeze past umbrella-wielding locals—and make it to the end of the street just in time for the light to flick from neon white to warning-sign orange, forcing me to stop.
I wait where I am, my gaze trained on him in case he turns onto a side street.
The traffic signals begin to change, and within seconds, the crosswalk blinks to white.
I sprint across, ignoring the stinging cold rain drops pelting my skin, the frigid air biting through my clothes, and the painful clench in my jaw that keeps my teeth from rattling.
I’m a mere half of a block from him when he turns and disappears inside a local business.
But it isn’t just any business …
… it’s the Paulley-Hallbrook Funeral Home—a place I know well.
A moment later, I’m standing outside the very doors he walked into mere moments ago, frozen in every sense of the word.
The rain slows, gentle.
And then it stops.
Earthy petrichor fills my lungs as I witness the dark-haired, cruel-hearted mystery man as he’s greeted by a lady in a charcoal pant suit.
She places a hand on his shoulder and gives him an apologetic wince before escorting him away.
I wanted to give him the umbrella to teach him a lesson in compassion.
The irony of that isn’t lost on me.
2
Bennett
“Sorry I’m late. Got here as soon as I could,” I lie.
I didn’t rush here.
I took my time.
And I stopped down the street for a drink and to gather my thoughts first—a mistake in hindsight thanks to an audacious woman, but that’s neither here nor there.
“Please, apology not necessary.” The funeral director—a grandmother type who smells like dead flowers and discount perfume and gives too many hugs and arm squeezes—hangs my soaked trench on a wooden coat rack in her office. I left my umbrella at the bar. I won’t be going back for it. “Why don’t you have a seat there and we can get started.”
I check my watch.
Take a seat.
Pray this doesn’t take all night.
The woman, whose name tag reads CLAUDETTE PAULLEY, DIRECTOR, squeezes into her chair on the other side of the desk and retrieves a small booklet from a stack to her left. The cover showcases a glossy white casket surrounded by floral arrangements too perfect to be real.
“When we spoke on the phone earlier,” she says, “you had mentioned cremation. Is that still—”
“—yes.” I don’t have time for her imprudent, time-wasting questions.
Once my mind is made up, there’s never any changing it.
“All right then.” She gives me a soft smile. Her bright pink lipstick bleeds into the lines around her mouth.
“Why don’t we discuss the service.” She glances up at me then down at her wringing hands. I must make her nervous. “And then I can show you some lovely urn options …”
“There won’t be a service.” I shift in this impossibly uncomfortable chair. “And you can choose the urn. Surprise me.”
Her lip form a wrinkled ‘o’ and she blinks before reanimating. “I see then.”
“Larissa didn’t have a lot of friends.” At least none that I would presently allow within a hundred yards of this place. “And as far as family goes, we’re rather private. A small memorial should suffice. An hour or two this Saturday if you can fit us in.”
Claudette searches my face for what I assume are emotions, but her time would be better spent hammering out the final details of Larissa’s memorial.
Reaching for a black, leather-bound planner, she flips it open to today’s date before licking her index finger and flicking to Saturday.
“We could do ten to noon.” She reaches for a logo-emblazoned pencil in a logo-emblazoned mug full of other logo-emblazoned pencils.
Classy.
“You don’t have anything earlier?”
She squints. “Well, we could certainly move it up. The timing is typically more of a convenience thing. If we hold it too early, it could be difficult for some people to get here, especially if they’re coming from out of town.”
“I can assure you that won’t be an issue.” I check my watch again, not because I have somewhere else to be, but because this woman needs to get on with this shit show already.
She scratches a few words into her planner with messy, shaky handwriting. “Eight to ten it is. Now, as far as the obituary, I have a form you could fill out or I could go over everything with you personally.”
“The form is fine.”
Her yellow-oak chair creaks as she reaches to open a desk drawer, and then she fishes out a chipped plastic clipboard and a piece of paper before handing them over.
This place is all kinds of fancy and formal.
My couture-loving mother certainly spared no expense when she had them ship Larissa’s lifeless corpse here.
The questions are endless and I don’t know the answer to half of them.