but I'd grown up around humans and wasn't quite so open, especially with Carlton, and especially after what happened yesterday. I pushed past him to the bathroom so I could brush my teeth.
"Keira, I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Did you go back to the funeral home last night?” His voice was quiet but steady. Sounded like his official sheriff's voice.
"No,” I answered, around a mouthful of toothpaste. I didn't like the way this was beginning to sound. I finished as quickly as I could and decided to skip the flossing when I looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked as if he was ready to cry.
Fuck.
I came out of the bathroom, brushing my hair and pulling it back into a scrunchie.
"Come on into the kitchen,” I said, “I'll make some coffee.” I don't really know why I wasn't letting him talk. I suppose I knew that when I did, I was going to hear something I wasn't going to want to hear.
He let me go through the routine of grinding the beans, measuring the water and flipping the switch on the pot. I'd gotten out the mugs, sugar and cream before he spoke again.
"Come on and sit down, Keira.” He pulled out a chair and motioned with his hat hand. “Please."
I walked over to him, my bare feet cold on the Saltillo tile. He took a chair at the other side of the hand-hewn mesquite wood table and set his hat down next to the place mat. He looked at me directly for the first time since waking me up.
"Do you know what time Marty got back?” he asked. He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. Carlton had always spoken beautifully and deliberately, determined to lose the accent his folks had bestowed on him. He'd succeeded. Acting and debate classes in high school helped him speak more like a toastmaster and less like a hick country sheriff, which he wasn't.
"No, I pretty much just came back here after—” I stopped as I remembered my side trip to the Wild Moon. I didn't think he needed to hear that.
"Marty never called you or anything?"
"Not that I know of. If he did, he didn't leave any messages.” My brain was trying to clear itself of too-early-in-the-morning fuzz. Had the place been robbed? It had happened once before, bored teenagers playing I-dare-you games, breaking into the funeral home to prove their testosterone.
I watched Carlton fiddling with his hat. His index finger pushed it, then reached and pulled it back. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. He didn't look up.
The drip of the coffee maker was the only sound in the room.
"Damn it, Carlton, what's going on? Stop beating around the bush."
He looked down at the table and cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Keira, but Marty's dead."
I looked at him. Suddenly my hands were damp and my throat wasn't. I stood up and walked over to the cupboard for a glass and got myself some cold water from the dispenser. I drank it down and filled up the glass again.
"What happened?” My voice sounded unused and old.
"We're not exactly sure. Sometime last night, after we both left, someone, or more than one someone, got into the funeral parlor. Ruben Cortez found Marty this morning when he came in to do the cleaning.” Carlton cleared his throat. “Could I trouble you for some of that coffee, now?"
My hands shook as I poured us each a large mug and brought them to the table. I could barely think. He'd meant murdered, not just dead.
Carlton took a long sip of the steaming coffee before speaking again. When he did, I had to strain to hear him. I'd never known him to speak so softly.
"Ruben went in and found all the lights on, as if no one had bothered to turn everything off after the electricity came back on. He said he didn't think too much about it and just went around doing the morning cleaning.
"When he got to the back, he realized something was wrong. The prep room door was open, something jammed in the doorway. When he went to check, he saw your cousin."
I looked up from my coffee when the words stopped coming. Carlton was staring at his
"Keira, I'm sorry, but I have to ask. Did you go back to the funeral home last night?” His voice was quiet but steady. Sounded like his official sheriff's voice.
"No,” I answered, around a mouthful of toothpaste. I didn't like the way this was beginning to sound. I finished as quickly as I could and decided to skip the flossing when I looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked as if he was ready to cry.
Fuck.
I came out of the bathroom, brushing my hair and pulling it back into a scrunchie.
"Come on into the kitchen,” I said, “I'll make some coffee.” I don't really know why I wasn't letting him talk. I suppose I knew that when I did, I was going to hear something I wasn't going to want to hear.
He let me go through the routine of grinding the beans, measuring the water and flipping the switch on the pot. I'd gotten out the mugs, sugar and cream before he spoke again.
"Come on and sit down, Keira.” He pulled out a chair and motioned with his hat hand. “Please."
I walked over to him, my bare feet cold on the Saltillo tile. He took a chair at the other side of the hand-hewn mesquite wood table and set his hat down next to the place mat. He looked at me directly for the first time since waking me up.
"Do you know what time Marty got back?” he asked. He spoke slowly, as if choosing his words with care. Carlton had always spoken beautifully and deliberately, determined to lose the accent his folks had bestowed on him. He'd succeeded. Acting and debate classes in high school helped him speak more like a toastmaster and less like a hick country sheriff, which he wasn't.
"No, I pretty much just came back here after—” I stopped as I remembered my side trip to the Wild Moon. I didn't think he needed to hear that.
"Marty never called you or anything?"
"Not that I know of. If he did, he didn't leave any messages.” My brain was trying to clear itself of too-early-in-the-morning fuzz. Had the place been robbed? It had happened once before, bored teenagers playing I-dare-you games, breaking into the funeral home to prove their testosterone.
I watched Carlton fiddling with his hat. His index finger pushed it, then reached and pulled it back. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. He didn't look up.
The drip of the coffee maker was the only sound in the room.
"Damn it, Carlton, what's going on? Stop beating around the bush."
He looked down at the table and cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Keira, but Marty's dead."
I looked at him. Suddenly my hands were damp and my throat wasn't. I stood up and walked over to the cupboard for a glass and got myself some cold water from the dispenser. I drank it down and filled up the glass again.
"What happened?” My voice sounded unused and old.
"We're not exactly sure. Sometime last night, after we both left, someone, or more than one someone, got into the funeral parlor. Ruben Cortez found Marty this morning when he came in to do the cleaning.” Carlton cleared his throat. “Could I trouble you for some of that coffee, now?"
My hands shook as I poured us each a large mug and brought them to the table. I could barely think. He'd meant murdered, not just dead.
Carlton took a long sip of the steaming coffee before speaking again. When he did, I had to strain to hear him. I'd never known him to speak so softly.
"Ruben went in and found all the lights on, as if no one had bothered to turn everything off after the electricity came back on. He said he didn't think too much about it and just went around doing the morning cleaning.
"When he got to the back, he realized something was wrong. The prep room door was open, something jammed in the doorway. When he went to check, he saw your cousin."
I looked up from my coffee when the words stopped coming. Carlton was staring at his
Similar Books
