Now he’s gone.
He’d never meet Miah’s future kids, or kiss his wife again, or see his land or his animals, or drive down Station Street with his tanned arm draped along the open window, raising his hand at every person he passed. He was ten times more recognizable than the mayor—a hundred times more respected.
Or he used to be. Past tense.
Casey glanced at Chris Bean, lying nearly still save for the faintest rise and fall of his ribs, silent except for that eerie whistling breath. All because of you, Casey thought, and felt his muscles tensing, wanting to kick and hit and strangle, to reach for his gun and finish the fucking job.
Not only because of him, he reminded himself. Bean was the bullet. You could curse the bullet all you wanted, but where would that get you, in the end? It was the hand around the grip and the finger on the trigger that mattered. The brain that gave the order to squeeze.
“You better fucking live,” he muttered, squinting at Bean. “You just better hope you fucking live.”
? ? ?
Bean did live, but not for long.
Long enough to die in the back of the ambulance from circulatory shock—a combination of stress and the drugs in his system, the news later reported—but not long enough to get questioned by the police or shed any more light on the tragedy now gripping Fortuity.
All told, Miah and Casey had spent about six hours being questioned by the authorities. Casey had confessed that he’d trespassed and shown them the lighter. He might get a fine for disturbing a crime scene, but both their firearms were legit. Miah had shot Bean, and from behind, so self-defense was no excuse. Still, the shot hadn’t killed him—the drugs had—and Miah had ultimately been released. If he did face criminal charges, it’d be hard to make them stick, given the circumstances; Don Church had been a monumental figure in the county, and it was unlikely any jury of Miah’s peers would want to see him punished for his part in turning his father’s accidental death case into an arson investigation and possible homicide.
The autopsy had found two bullets in Don’s back—one in his shoulder, one in his spine, both shot from medium range. They were 9mm, and their casings matched those from the warnings aimed at Jason on Friday night. Unusual marks on the slugs found in Don’s body suggested a silencer.
If the circumstances were merciful, that shot to the spine meant maybe Don had died quickly, never having lived to suffer the fire.
It was Thursday morning, and Miah looked up from his laptop at the sound of the doorbell. He’d been wading through e-mails, business and personal alike, and trying not to drown in the process. This was the third morning he’d woken to realize his father was dead, and though the shock of it was fading, the pain hadn’t ebbed a jot.
He shouted, “I got it,” in case his mother had been poised to interrupt whatever she was doing in the office. He headed for the front door.
Not condolences, he prayed as he closed his hand around the knob. He couldn’t take any more kind words, any more sad faces, any more goddamn casseroles. The funeral was set for Sunday, and he’d need all the stamina he could muster just to survive it.
He opened the door, finding his wish had been granted. But the visitor was still a touch troubling.