Lies(63)

“Have you given counseling any more thought?”

“Grief counseling or you-killed-someone counseling?”

Jen’s eyes widen for a moment. “I’m thinking probably you could use both.”

“Eventually, maybe. I’m not ready to talk about it to a stranger yet.” Though there’ll definitely be no mentioning of specifics when I do. News reported it as local man gunned down on his wedding day. An unmotivated attack, apparently. And now here we are on the day of his funeral.

“I tried so hard not to fall in love with him.” I take another sip of liquor. “Knew it wasn’t smart. But what can you do?”

Jen’s gaze is somber. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know. Me too.” I raise my glass. “To Thom Lange. Love of my life and the best man I ever met.”

“To Thom.”

We both drink.




Whoever is at the door sure is determined. When constant ringing of the bell fails to get me off the sofa, they start banging on the door instead. Hammering, actually. Fortunately for me, my powers for ignoring things, people, and everything else, are mighty these days. Bear and Crow keep turning up, wanting to watch movies or just generally hang out. Something I was most definitely not in the mood for. And they were obviously only monitoring me and my security for the sake of their fallen comrade. What they didn’t get, was how they were just another reminder of Thom’s absence. Of my messy broken heart. The way they’d check all the doors and windows, and offer to clean my gun for me or take me to the shooting range. No thank you. Thom was gone. Surely his enemies had gotten the message and would leave me the hell alone.

The abuse to my front door continues on for several minutes. Much more of this and the neighbors might complain. Not that I care.

“It’s steel, dumbass,” I mutter. “You’re not getting in.”

At last, the noise ceases and all is quiet. Just how I like things. Except then the front door swings open and Fox is strolling on in like she owns the place.

I sit up straight. “How the hell did you get through that door?”

“Forked tension wrench.”

“Huh.”

“If you really wanted to try and keep me out you should have used the dead bolt.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Well, now. Don’t you look a bloody mess?” Her British accent really is perfect for this sort of put-down. “They told me you were bad, but this…have you even washed recently?”

“Go away.”

“I can’t, unfortunately,” she says. “Bear and Crow are busy elsewhere and I was the only one available to check on your sorry self today.”

“I don’t need to be checked on.”

“Whatever you say, my dear.”

“I don’t even like you.”

“You’re far from being a favorite of mine either, but here we are.” She sniffs the air near me, nose wrinkling, before taking the seat opposite. “It’s been a month, Betty. He’s gone. You need to stop being pathetic, pull your shit together, and get on with life.”

“Thanks for the feedback.” Jen, my parents, and everyone else I know have been a bit more forgiving, giving me time to mourn. It figures that spies and killers like Fox and Bear would get over these things a bit quicker. But all I want is to be left the hell alone, thank you. Apparently, however, that is too much to ask amid my misery and grief.

“Crow thought I might start teaching you some self-defense moves,” she says.

“Not interested, thanks. Not yet, at any rate.”

“Do you even have a gun nearby?”

I wave a hand in the air. “There’s bound to be one around here somewhere.”

A pained sigh from the immaculate woman across the room. “Dedicating the rest of your life to breaking the world record for general stupidity combined with the highest used pizza box stack is a less than impressive idea.”

“I know. That’s why I’m working on building a pyramid of empty pickle jars too. Pickles rock. And if someone does break in and try to kill me, they’ll make for a handy projectile.”

“Don’t you have a cleaner?”

“What part of me not answering the door failed to clue you in to the fact that I don’t want people around me right now?”

An even heavier sigh. “Wolf is gone. You need to accept it and move on.”

I jump off the sofa and start pacing back and forth. This is not a conversation I want to have sitting down. She’s right about me reeking. A fact probably not helped by my week-old pajamas.

“I’m not ready to accept it. I just can’t believe he’s dead,” I say. “It was all so sudden.”

“Denial. That’s the first stage of grief.”

“But—”

“Betty, get a grip. His ashes are in the urn on the kitchen table. You saw the body. We all did.”

I hate her for saying it. For reminding me. Bear didn’t want to let me see him at all. He said it would be too traumatic. He was right about that. It’s one thing to see a dead body when it’s all made up nicely in an open casket, where the person looks so peaceful and perfect they might just be sleeping. But laid out in a morgue, Thom just looked cold and lifeless. I screamed and shook, and in the end Bear needed to carry me out, lifting me up like a husband carrying his newlywed across the threshold.