Page 633 of One More Kiss

Mann’s Best Friend

Janine Infante Bosco

Josephine “Jo” Booker

“Is theresomeone I can call for you, darlin’?”

Tearing my hands away from my face, I lift my chin and stare at the man who single-handedly flipped my world upside down with a phone call, Detective River Reynolds. It’s like I’m just seeing him for the first time, cataloging every feature, from his wavy salt and pepper hair that is combed back, to his slightly crooked jaw and the age lines surrounding his mouth. I pause there, watching as a frown tugs the corners of his lips.

He plucks a tissue from the box on top of his desk and hands it to me. Tearing my eyes from him, I murmur my thanks and take the tissue, mindlessly dabbing at my puffy eyes. Until now, I didn’t think it were possible for a person to cry as much as I have in the last five hours, but ever since my phone rang and my brother Andrew’s name flashed across my screen, it seems to be all I can do. A sickening sense of dread immediately washed over me and I just knew something wasn’t right. He and I weren’t on the best of terms, and after our last conversation, I assumed he was either calling to ask me for money or to tell me our dear Aunt Barbara had passed.

It was neither of those things.

In fact, it wasn’t Andrew calling at all—it was Detective Reynolds of the Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department.

“Ms. Booker?”

Snapping out of my trance, I turn my head and stare at him blankly.

“I’m sorry what was the question?’

“I asked if there is any body you’d like me to call for you. It’s going to be a while before the Forensics report comes back and we clear the apartment and even then, you’re going to want to have it cleaned before you go in there.”

Forcing myself to focus, I drag my fingers through my dark hair and swallow around the lump in my throat.

“You said it was a suicide,” I croak, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. I close my eyes for a moment, instantly regretting the decision because as soon as I do, I’m transcended back to the moment I stepped out of my car and stood in front of my brother’s apartment. Four police cruisers were parked out front, along with the medical examiner’s truck. There was caution tape blocking the door to the apartment and Andrew’s landlady sat outside on her porch crying buckets of tears.

Poor Mrs. Jacobs—she had been the one to find my brother. Dead, in his bed, with a gun next to him and half of his head blown off. At least that’s what she kept saying over and over to the police. Imagine driving three hours from Durham because a detective called you to tell you your only brother was in some sort of ‘accident’ but before he can explain to you that your brother wasn’t actually in an accident, you hear his landlady say those words.

There was no easing the truth.

No, I’m sorry but…

There were those vile words and the picture they painted.

Detective Reynolds sighs as he leans back in his chair.

“Yes, that’s what it appears to be, but we’re still required to do a full investigation before we can officially declare it a suicide.”

Right.

I vaguely remember him explaining that to me right after he asked if I wanted to identify Andrew’s body—something I politely declined. Mrs. Jacobs had already identified him and as far as I was concerned, I didn’t want him lying in that bed to be my last memory of him.

Fresh tears fill my eyes and threaten to spill down my cheeks as it really sinks in—Andrew is gone. The one who sheltered me after our parents died and pushed me to finish high school. The one who cheered the loudest when I got my diploma. The one who taught me how to drive using our Aunt Barbara’s old Buick. The one who paid for me to go to beauty school. The man who served our country as a United States Navy Seal. A true American hero who survived war only to take his own life.

A sob sounds from the back of my throat and I quickly lift a hand to cover my mouth. Detective Reynolds hands me the entire box of tissues, staring at me with a solemn expression on his face.

“Please let me call someone for you.”

I shake my head.

“There’s no one to call.”

Our parents died sixteen years ago in the fire that tore through our childhood home. Aunt Barbara, our great aunt on our dad’s side, took us in after that and raised us. If I were to call anyone, it would be her, but two years ago she suffered a stroke that left her paralyzed on her right side. Neither me nor Andrew were in any position to care for her. I was just opening my salon in Durham and he had just returned to the states after having been discharged from the military. A failed mission in Afghanistan left him disabled and acclimating to life as a veteran—he could barely care for himself much less our aunt.

But Andrew didn’t see things the way I did. He wanted to be close to Aunt Barbara so instead of putting her in a nursing home closer to me, we went with one in Concord which was a thirty-minute drive from Andrew’s apartment in Charlotte and every Sunday, Andrew visited her like clockwork.

I should’ve realized something was up when he didn’t call me with a weekly report on Aunt Barbara. Instead, I brushed it off. Andrew was stubborn and like I said, we weren’t on the best of terms after he called to ask me to take a business loan on my salon.

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