“Yes. He didn’t deserve to die like he did and to be left all alone,” I tell him through the heavy knot of sadness in my throat. “Do you think you can find out where he was buried?”
He reaches into his vest to pull out his cell, and without wasting a minute, asks, “Where did this happen?”
“He was living in Justice. It’s the same county as here.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Pike Donley,” I tell him.
He looks up the number to Cook County and is redirected to the coroner’s office. He stands to walk over to grab a piece of paper and a pen as I hear him ask, “Who claimed the body?” He continues to take notes and ask questions as my gut twists and tangles while I listen to one side of this conversation.
Patience escapes me, and I walk over to where he’s standing so I can read the notes he’s taken. Matt’s name is written on the paper. Declan ends the call and tucks his phone away.
“Why did you write down Matt’s name?”
“He’s the one that claimed the body. Who is he?”
“Um . . . just one of Pike’s friends.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, he was Pike’s buddy since we were kids,” I tell him while still concealing the fact that it wasn’t too long ago he was calling me to bail him out of debt.
“Well, since no next of kin claimed the body within the allotted time, Matt was able to do so before cremation. He paid the state fee for an indigent burial.”
“What?” I blurt out, upset. “So what does that mean?”
“Nothing. Just that the state was in charge of the burial, that’s all.”
“Where is he?” My words increase in anxiety as the need to see his gravesite amplifies.
“Mount Olivet here in Chicago.”
“I have to go.”
“Elizabeth, you’re upset. Why don’t we take a little time and—”
“No!” I bellow.
“I think you should just—”
“Declan,” I say, cutting his words off, refusing to wait any longer to see where my brother’s buried. “If this were your mom, and I told you to ‘Take some time,’ would you be able to do that?”
He doesn’t answer me.
“I didn’t think so,” I tell him and he sees my point when he says, “I’ll call the valet to pull the car around.”
I throw my jacket on before we head down to the lobby where Declan’s Mercedes roadster is already waiting for us out front. I watch as the light drizzle from outside collects on the windshield and then gets wiped away with the wipers, and suddenly, the urgency I was feeling back at Lotus has dissipated. Pike is dead, and I’m not going to the cemetery to say goodbye because he’s still with me. But it’s a sinking feeling, maybe a part of me is still in denial, but it’s the thought of seeing his name on a burial plot that I fear.
Declan begins to speed when we merge onto I-90 E, and I look over to him, asking somberly, “Can you slow down?”
He draws his foot back off the accelerator, slowing the car. “Is everything okay?”
I look out of my window, raindrops skewing my view, and admit, “I’m scared.”
He takes my hand, but I keep my head turned away from him.
“We don’t have to do this right now if you’re not ready.”
“Is anybody ever ready?” The question is heavy between us as I turn to face him.
He holds my hand tighter and doesn’t respond.
“He needs flowers,” I tell him. “Can we stop and get him some flowers?”
“Of course, darling.”
I pull out my phone and find a florist not too far from the interstate, and when we arrive, my request is simple. “I need all the pink daisies you have in stock.”
“Daisies?” Declan questions when the sales clerk goes to the back cooler.
“They’re my favorite.”
“I remember,” he says with a subtle smile and then kisses the top of my head, resting his lips there for a moment while we wait for the lady to reappear.
“Any shade of pink?” the woman hollers from the back.
“Yes. Mix them,” I shout back to her. “All of them.”
I wait with Declan’s arm wrapped around me, tucking me against his side, and when the clerk reemerges from the back, my eyes widen.
“Christ, that’s a lot of flowers,” Declan notes in surprise.
“One hundred and sixty-three stems,” she tells us. “You wiped me out of inventory.”
I watch as she wraps the daisies in huge sheets of brown paper and ties them up with several cords of natural raffia. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Declan pays and takes the flowers in his arms. Popping the trunk, he lays the bouquet down and we both laugh a little when they fill the trunk entirely.
We continue our drive, hitting light patches of traffic, and finally arrive at the gates of Mount Olivet. He parks the car at the funeral home that’s right through the entrance.
“I’m going to go grab a map. I’ll be right back.”
An eerie chill creeps along my arms and it only takes a minute for Declan to reappear with a map in hand.
“Where is he?”