Page 36 of Twisted Truths
It takes me a second to realise the old man has asked me a question. I clear my throat and straighten, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” Heat rises to the back of my neck as he casts me a sympathetic look over the top of his glasses.
“I know this can’t be easy for you, son.” Steepling his hands beneath his chin, he says, “I asked what kind of service you’d like to have. We could hold it here or?—”
“The church,” I interrupt. “It’s what Mum and Paul would have wanted.”
I’ve got to give it to George for keeping his face passive. “Are you sure that’s a good idea with everything?—”
“The church,” I repeat firmly. “With a cremation afterwards.”
There’s no way I’m coming back here after I leave, and I’m not leaving my family behind. Paul included. He was more of a father to me than Dalton ever was.
Paul’s estranged brother lives over in England, along with both his elderly parents who are too sick to travel. George assures me we can stream it for them.
Mum’s parents died when I was in high school. Nan first, followed a week later by Pop. Mum always said he died of a broken heart. Poetic, really.
George makes a note. “I’ll schedule a meeting with Father Malachi to organise the order of ceremonies.”
I offer him a brief nod, and he shuffles through the paperwork. “Have you given any thought to the floral arrangements?”
The look on my face is obviously telling because he adds, “Daniela’s orchids were always the talk of the town. My Janice was always chuffed when she’d pick some up at the market.”
“Yep, fine. Whatever. Do you have someone who can organise that? I don’t mind what you go with.”
He nods, making more notes before he leans back in his chair and removes his glasses. Pinching the bridge of his nose,he exhales a deep breath. “This next part is going to be the hardest, Nash. There’s no easy way, I’m afraid.”
My chest tightens and I brace myself for what’s coming. The pressure behind my eyes builds, and I clench my jaw to keep it from showing on my face.
Turning to the bookshelf behind him, George pulls out a folder bound in soft green leather and gently slides it towards me.Children’s Caskets.The words are written in elegant silver script across the front. It feels like they’re screaming at me.
“I thought it best we start with Rylan,” he says softly. “Sometimes making the hardest decision first helps ease into the rest.”
I can’t even open the damn thing. My hand hovers over it, fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do. Because they don’t. How the hell am I supposed to pick out a casket to bury my twelve-year-old brother in?
As I stare at the cover, my eyes blur. I blink hard, blink again, and then finally shove the book away from me.
“I can’t,” I choke out, my voice cracking. “He was only a kid. Christ, he still slept with that ratty old glow-in-the-dark dinosaur I gave him for his fifth birthday when he was afraid of the boogie monster under his bed. I told him…” I draw in a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears. “I told him it would keep him safe.”
A sob rips from my chest.
“He … he wasn’t supposed to—” My voice breaks completely this time, and I slam my fist down on the edge of the desk, startling both of us. “He was only fucking twelve!”
George gives me a moment, his own eyes shining a little now. He doesn’t say anything, simply folding his hands in his lap and letting me breathe through the pain.
The room spins. I drop my head into my hands, my chest rising and falling like I’ve just run a marathon. This isn’thappening. I’m not sitting in this room organising a funeral for my mum. My sister. My little brother. Paul. He was the best stepdad a kid could ask for. Fuck. Maybe if I pinch myself, I’ll wake up from this fucking nightmare.
I grip the skin on the back of my arm between my thumb and pointer, but it doesn’t work. If anything, it does the opposite. The sharp sting reminds me of where I am and the difficult decisions I have to make. I have no choice. No one else will make them for me.
Paige offered to come, but I told her not to. I made her promise not to tell Levi because he had a game. His team need him.
I need him.
We may not have been close when we were in high school because I was a punk kid with a chip on my shoulder, but he was there for me when I needed his help to get Ziggy out of the cult, and he’s supported me through my loss.
Right now, though, he’s pacing the sidelines of the court, shouting plays, calling subs, completely unaware I’m sitting in the funeral home, trying to figure out how to bury four people.
This isn’t real. It can’t be.
