Page 130 of Veiled in Brick

He disguised his whispered words as a kiss in my hair, and he shifted back to his seat.

“If you do see Peter,” Mister Milkovich continued, “Tall, pale, black hair—could you let him know that I tried to call? It’s been a few days; haven’t heard from him.” He held out a single finger as if an idea had blossomed within him. “I think he’s trying to skip rent—couldn’t let him stay for free—argued it until he was blue in the face.”

It was a miracle that I hadn’t vomited. The joking mention of his nephew’s metaphorical pallor made the image of him dead before me flash in my mind. He didn’t mean anything by it—there was no trace of animosity in his voice whatsoever, but it still made the bitter taste of bile rise to the back of my throat.

James reached for his drink and tipped it back, gulping three times before it was emptied completely. He set it on the counter, mouth warped from chugging fire, tapped the rim, and Claire refilled it.

“Don’t tell him I said anything about the rent,” Mister Milkovich chuckled. “Oh, Peter can be ornery.” He waved a hand in the air. “Anyway—I’ll leave you be—thank you.”

He rapped his knuckles on the counter, did an about-face, and walked himself out the front door.

Everyone around me conversed in hushed voices. Cassie to James, asking if he had disposed of the two cameras we had, and him confirming quickly that he had, and that any footage on the app from the two had been erased. Luke to Claire speaking of general anxiety, and her ensuring him that Mister Milkovich was none the wiser before leaning over the counter to ask in a voice that sounded muffled to my ears:

“Zoey—you good?”

I trembled as I spoke, “I want to go home.”

Liam gently touched my right knee, and when I looked to him, he shook his head.

“We’re all okay—he’s gone. Tripped and drowned in the river—a terrible accident.” His quiet tone spoke in volumes, his brown eyes holding a calm that I couldn’t have anticipated, and he added, “Don’t let him run your life.”

I nodded, and the remainder of the group collectively shook off the nervous cloud that had settled over us all.

The past few days had made me question if my life could be peaceful—if my inner turmoil could be quieted. It was clear that it could, as a vision of what our routine as a group could be had played itself out mere minutes ago, and I was…happy. So fucking happy. But the nagging thought that I was naïve—that it wasn’t over and I would be forever haunted by his presence even with him long gone—remained.

We pushed past it all, Luke and Claire fed me enough Fireball to euthanize a large dog, and such ended day five.

Day six was spent horrendously hungover and on day seven, Peter was found.

Though panic-inducing in the moment, looking back on it now, the knowledge of his death being out in the open so quickly was a blessing. The discovery of his body in the woods outside of Salem was announced in the media—briefly televised, noted in the local news, and nothing else—to alert the public of the dangers of wandering into rapid rivers.

I was a bottle floating in the ocean. The paper that was once inside was now long gone—not snatched away but willingly given and graciously protected—proudly laminated and held in the safe haven that was Liam’s hands. The waves had been ridden, the storm had passed, and all of it left me shattered in its wake. Shattered, but held together by glue meticulously placed by his touch. The sky was finally blue, and I pushed forward to the healing embrace of days to come.

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