The funeral dream, in comparison, isn’t so bad. At least I get to see her alive and smiling.
The floorboards are warm beneath my bare feet as I make my way downstairs. The conversation of Nick and my father—baseball, like it matters—reaches my ears before I see the two of them seated at the dining room table. Father is dressed for the day in shirt sleeves and trousers. Nick is still in his buffalo-check pajamas, picking at his breakfast. Even from the hall, I can see why he’s eating so late. His face is pale and puffy, a sure sign that, yet again, he came home in the wee hours of the morning.
When they notice me, the conversation halts.
Father smiles. “Good morning, Piper.”
“Good morning.” I glance at Nick. His eyes are their new normal shade of red, from drink and lack of sleep. He doesn’t speak to me.
Joyce comes through the door with a breakfast plate in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “Sidekick is so good to let me know when you’re up and about.” She smiles warmly and sets my plate on the table, across from Nick and Father.
“Thank you, Joyce.”
With Walter returning to California the day of Lydia’s funeral, and Father and Nick usually gone to the office, I’m accustomed to taking my breakfast alone or in the kitchen. It’s strange to feel so awkward with one’s own family.
Father sips at his coffee. “How did you sleep, dear?”
“The same.”
They exchange a look that seems to be about me, and I pretend not to notice.
“Nick was just telling me about his plans to go to the lake with some friends. I think it’d be good for you to join him.”
I involuntarily snort. Sure, relaxing on the shores of the lake. That will make everything better.
I reach for the jar of peach preserves. “I don’t feel up to it today.”
The silence is thick, like the weight of air just before it rains.
Nick leans back in his chair. “Do you have other plans?”
I shrug. “What’s it to you?”
Sidekick pushes his way through the kitchen door and into the dining room. He stretches out on a plot of carpet beside me in a satisfied, full-belly way. He always eats his breakfast in about three bites, as if otherwise the food will vanish.
“I’d rather not watch you waste your life away.” Nick’s gaze holds a challenge. “Is that reason enough, sister? That I care about you?”
I could say the same thing to him, it seems. Perhaps he’s wasting away his life in a more vibrant kind of way—speakeasies and race tracks and house parties—but it’s wasteful all the same.
“I’m fine.” I keep my voice level. “I’m grieving, but I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you.” Nick’s tone is flat.
“Kids,” Father says. “This time is difficult enough without bickering.”
“We’re letting her languish too much. She should be improving by now.”
“Why, because you are?” I snap. “She was my best friend, Nick. And she was . . .”
The typewritten notes of the coroner’s report swim before my eyes. Fibers were found in the oral cavity of the victim, so it’s likely the victim was gagged.
I blink away the words, try to push out what I want to say. “And she was . . .”
The lungs were filled with not only water but emesis, leaving me to conclude that the victim aspirated before being bound and discarded in the river. Given the victim’s history with seizures, it’s my belief that—
“Taken.” The word—so beautifully vague—finally comes out. “She was taken. Am I not supposed to grieve?”
“Grieve? Yes. Give up? No. You barely said good-bye to Walter when he left. You won’t answer telephone calls. You won’t come out with me and my friends.”
Sidekick wedges himself between my legs. The tension in the air has set him trembling.
“I know losing Lydia hurts. It hurts me too, Piper.” Nick’s jaw quivers for a moment. “But there are still people who care about you. And I’m not just talking about that Cassano kid who keeps sniffing around.”
There’s a tinge of anger in that last sentence. Is this related to his hangover, or is he actually mad about the two visits Mariano has paid me since Lydia’s funeral?
“Detective Cassano is the same age as you, Nicholas Sail.”
“I think you know what I mean.”
That I shouldn’t be receiving attention from an Italian? Or a Catholic? Has studying the law turned my brother against immigrants?
“Nick.” Father’s tone holds a warning. “I think you’re being unfair.”
Nick turns to Father. “You can’t possibly think it’s a good idea for Piper to see him.”
I slather preserves onto my biscuit with such force, it crumbles against my hand. “I’m sorry, but I thought this conversation began with you wanting me to live my life more.”