Page 15 of Murder in Calusa Cove
She ran her finger across the picture with a narrowed stare. “How did your brother’s child die? How did your twin die?”
“My family doesn’t believe in vaccinations.” Hayes ran a hand over his mouth and shuddered. Each time the memory surfaced, a deep sadness settled in his chest, followed by a surge of rage that coursed through him, reaching to the tips of his fingers. “When I was little, I came down with the measles. My brother got them shortly after I did, but he had some complications. My brother’s little girl came down with a different illness, preventable by a vaccine, but also treatable. However, she didn’t make it.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but doesn’t your family believe in doctors or hospitals?” Chloe held the image up, tapping her finger across the picture, as if to count the massive number of people in his family. While he could name all his nieces and nephews, rattling off his aunts, uncles, and cousins was an entirely different problem—and proved to be impossible without a cheat sheet.
“Modern medicine is foreign to them. They live as if it were two hundred years ago. No one has a television, and not everyone has a telephone in their homes. I don’t think anyone has a cell phone. A few of my siblings have moved a little into the modern age, and my folks now have a landline, but mostly, they live a simple life, off the land, and rely on one or two general practitioners who make house calls.”
“That doesn’t explain why your brother’s child died from something that a doctor or hospital could’ve treated.”
Hayes took a second to compose himself. Allowing the anger that he’d shoved into the corner of his heart to surface didn’t do him, or his family, any good. It wouldn’t bring his niece—or his brother—back. “By the time Mickey and his wife realized that prayer and a local doctor weren’t going to be enough, it was too late. He’s still pretty angry over the entire thing, but he’s mostly upset with himself. Mickey was only one when Max died, so he doesn’t remember, and my parents tell a vastly different story than I do.”
She leaned back and crossed her arms, her gaze thoughtful but edged with disapproval—the kind that came from hearing something she couldn’t quite excuse, even if she understood it. “What do they tell people?”
Hayes pinched the bridge of his nose. “That God wanted my brother more than we did. That Max had more important work to do in heaven than on earth, and that’s one of the reasons why Good took him from us.” Hayes dropped his hands to his side and wiggled his fingers. Outside of his brothers-in-arms, he hadn’t discussed this, except for with Mickey, and that hadn’t been easy. The emotions were still raw and right at the surface.
Hayes no longer blamed his parents for Max’s death. However, he did blame the community and the religion. But he no longer wanted to save them from themselves. “They also mentioned that I might not have prayed hard enough. That I had been selfish, and now God would punish me.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s gross.”
“I don’t disagree.” He leaned against the counter and gripped it hard. “Once Mickey lost his daughter, many of my family members realized that history was repeating itself and have been considering that maybe their way of life needs an adjustment. However, leaving the church isn’t as easy as leaving, say, the Catholic church, because it would be like divorcing your entire family. It’s kind of hard to explain without making them sound like they’re crazy, and I don’t believe they are. Misguided, sure, but nuts, no.”
“What do they all think of you?”
Hayes burst out laughing.
“I don’t see why that’s funny?”
He cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s not, but when I left the community, I was what you would call ‘shunned.’ No one would talk to me, and my brothers and sisters were forbidden to communicate with me.”
“No offense, but I can see why you don’t talk about this, and I certainly don’t hold it against you. Honestly, it sounds like a cult.”
“I suppose it does—there are elements that resemble a cult. The structure, the blind loyalty, and even the way outsiders are treated all fit. But when you’re raised in it, when it’s all you’ve ever known, it doesn’t feel extreme. It feels normal—familiar—like the only way life is supposed to be.”
She pushed the photo aside. “Have you ever tried to get your family out?”
He hesitated. “That’s not a simple question. The answer’s layered.”
She leveled a sharper look at him. “I don’t see how it could be.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, buying time. “Because, while I don’t subscribe to the beliefs I was raised with—neither the faith nor the lifestyle—it’s not my place to drag anyone out. No one physically stopped me from leaving. I wasn’t locked in, nor is anyone else. Once anyone becomes an adult, they’re free to leave. No one is being abused.”
“I’m not so sure I subscribe to that. Maybe not physically, but fundamentalists often emotionally abuse women and children.” Her expression tightened. She shook her head and gestured broadly. “What your parents told you when you were just six—that was horrifying, and I imagine it left an emotional scar.”
“I won’t deny that,” he said, voice low. “But when I started asking questions—hard questions about our life and faith, I got answers. I wasn’t ridiculed for doubting. The only real shame came when I stopped praying—and honestly, that’s not unique. You’ll find that in a lot of religious households.” He paused, then added, “And just so we’re clear—my family might not believe in vaccines, but they were never banned from getting them. It was always a choice. So were hospitals and other forms of medical care. My parents are more fundamentalist than some, and my dad is an elder in the church. He’s what we would describe as old school. However, please note that anyone can request that the doctor administer vaccines. It’s not like they would’ve been excommunicated. But they wouldn’t have advertised it either. It’s always been a balancing act between what they see as righteous living and the demands of the real world.”
“Sounds like you’re making excuses for them.”
“Trust me, I’m not.” He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Some days, I’m furious. I blame them for everything. Other days...I see the way my mother looks at me—like she’s staring straight through me and seeing the son she lost.” He lifted a brow, voice tight with emotion. “They don’t have to imagine what Max would’ve looked like as an adult. They see him every time they look at me.” He gestured over his shoulder, as if Max’s presence still hovered behind him. “But the religion they follow doesn’t really make space for grief—not the way most people understand it. They believe death is just another part of life, something to be accepted, even welcomed. Mourning too much is seen as questioning God’s will.”
“Then why would they tell you God was going to punish you? That doesn’t line up.”
“I’ve never asked them directly,” he admitted. “But if I had to guess? I think it was grief speaking—grief tangled up in faith. They were staring at the living image of the child they buried. That does something to a person.” He paused again before adding, “And there’s another layer. In our community, twins are seen as...different. Not always in a good way. There’s this strange reverence mixed with suspicion. Being one of a pair? It carries weight—and not all of it is positive.”
“That’s a lot to unpack, and I understand why you don’t talk about this. It’s giving me whiplash.”
He chuckled. “It does the same thing to me, but honestly, I don’t give it a lot of space in my brain. I can’t change who my family is, I can only change my relationship with them, and I am working on having a better one, but it’s not an easy thing when the community has shunned me, and that’s still a thing.”
“I’m sorry.”
