She flipped a switch and a monitor on the wall popped on with Sam’s lifeless face resting against a metal table, covered up to his shoulders by a white sheet. For the second time in as many weeks, I gazed into the rough remnant of a bullet hole to a man’s head. This one on my baby brother. His face was paler, and his small Afro still bore the imprint of his baseball cap. The blue crucifix tattoo on his neck seemed less pronounced, almost blending into the muted brown-gray shade of his skin. He didn’t look peaceful. He just looked quiet, still, like I could nudge him awake, to tell him I’m sorry and beg him to forgive me.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up with the picture on the monitor. And when it did, everything changed, much like the way a flag unfurls to reveal all its colors and symbolism. Sam was dead. I was alone.
Everything inside me went numb, and a crushing ache engulfed me. All at once, I heard this awful earsplitting sound. A low guttural wail that rose into a high-pitched scream blasting off the walls of the room and piercing my eardrums. In the same moment, I raised my hands to my face and realized that awful horrible wail of grief was coming from me.
I felt someone behind me holding me up as I collapsed toward the floor, the screams still ringing in my ears, the heartache still ripping me apart. Someone guided me to a waiting room.
The attendant returned and handed me a box of tissues. “Take as much time as you need, Ms. Littlejohn.”
I sat in the small waiting area. The dreary blue walls seemed like they were wading in toward me, creating a claustrophobic little box I had neither the energy nor desire to leave. Even though he was dead, all I wanted to do was stay close to Sam now. I was entering the bewitching season Vera used to talk about. I had finally become everything I told people I was, an orphaned only child. All the paper-thin lies I told and the secrets I tried to squash had brought me and Sam to this cold, sterile building. And like everything else that happened between us, this, too, was my fault. Every time I tried to help Sam, I only made matters worse. Why hadn’t I ever been able to get things right for me and Sam?
For decades, I’d rejected everything that connected me to Chillicothe, embracing some ridiculous idea that successful lawyers didn’t come from backwoods towns with jailbird siblings and dark secrets. I was stupid. Someone had left a news article in my car about Willie Jay. And now, Sam was dead. Somebody was lurking in my life, creeping through my carpetbag of secrets, and they now had stolen the one person I loved more than anything. I once read somewhere that the things we regret the most are the things we didn’t do, the choices we didn’t make, the path we didn’t take. I’ve regretted so many things for so long. But nothing hurt more than the regret of not taking better care of my brother, of not fully acknowledging him in my life. Now Sam’s death was one more regret to tuck in my carpetbag of secrets.
“Ms. Littlejohn?”
I didn’t look up. I didn’t have to. I’d expected her to show up at some point, surprised even that it had taken this long.
“I’m sorry about your brother. I know this isn’t the most convenient time, but do you mind answering a few questions?” Detective Bradford inquired.
I didn’t answer her. I didn’t have the emotional stamina to deal with her right now.
“Do you know an attorney by the name of Geoffrey Gallagher?” she probed.
I still didn’t look at her. “No.”
“Are you sure about that? Chris Knight, Mr. Gallagher’s partner, told us you called his office. You were pretty adamant about speaking with Mr. Gallagher. Why?”
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and fought back another round of tears. “I didn’t know him. I was just trying to get some files.”
“I see. What kind of files?”
I just stared at the brightly colored tissue box in my lap. “I thought he’d worked on some company matters but I was wrong. Chris Knight told me the firm didn’t have any company files.”
“Mr. Knight told us when he suggested the two of you call the police, you hesitated. Why is that?”
I remembered that exact conversation. I was trying to find Sam at the time, to protect him.
She took a few steps and stood over me. “When was the last time you spoke with your brother?”
“Last night.” I fiddled with the tissues.
“Did he seem unusual to you?”
“No.”
“So how did your brother know Mr. Gallagher?”
“Why are you asking?” I didn’t trust any cop. Willie Jay Groover had sucked up that commodity years ago.