A hard yank sent the shower curtain sliding sideways.
Zig spun around, naked, surprised to see a woman. She had silver hair with a black streak, and dark eyes with flecks of gold, just like her brother.
“Nola . . .” He bent forward, trying to cover himself with his hands.
Nola grabbed a nearby towel, tossing it at Zig. He was so focused on her, it hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.
“Sorry, lemme just . . .” Zig reached down, picked up the towel, and quickly covered his waist. “What the hell’re y—”
“The Reds, Mr. Zigarowski. Tell me what you know about the Reds.”
60
“What’re you doing here?” Zig challenged.
Nola held a finger to her lips. Be quiet.
She’d been hoping to avoid this moment, but she didn’t have a choice.
To her surprise, as Zig stood there in the silence, he was calm, scrambling just slightly as he wrapped the towel around his waist.
Zig saw himself as a tough man. The kind of guy who asked hard questions and could deal with hard situations. For decades, that was his job. When the families of fallen soldiers came to Dover, he’d grant them his strength, giving them his last reserves so they could lean on him in that moment when they felt abandoned by every belief they once thought would never leave them. As Nola knew, that’s where Zig found his self-worth—it’s how he felt less alone, and less guilty for his role in his daughter’s death—by giving to others the one thing he’d never have. Closure.
Yet right now, as Zig stood there with a towel at his waist in the still-running shower, Nola couldn’t help but notice that even with the confusion on his face, there was also—
A nervous grin.
Of course there was. Nola shook her head. It’s what Zig always did when he saw her, seizing on some decade-old familiarity and acting as if she and he were friends, or even acquaintances.
“It’s good to see you,” Zig finally whispered, going to shut off the shower.
“Keep it on,” Nola warned. She locked the door. They needed privacy.
“I take it the cops are still outside? You avoiding them or your brother?” Zig asked, his voice still low.
Nola didn’t answer, glancing around the small 1980s bathroom, complete with a salmon-colored backsplash and a teal toilet. There were cracks in both the backsplash and floor tiles. Easily repairable, but ignored. It was the same with this Dairy Queen turned funeral home—and really, she realized, the same with Zig—once something happy, but now, over time, hollowed out from spending so much time around death.
“You look tired,” Zig added.
He looked worse. The lines in his face were deeper than Nola remembered, his skin papery. As he stood there on the small ledge of the still-running shower, what stuck out most was the way his eyebrows now dominated his face—they were overgrown, as was a clump of hairs along his ears. No one to pluck them for—or to do it for him. Nola’s first thought was that he’d aged in the past two years, but that was quickly replaced by what felt like a rift in her brain: that she was still remembering Zig from when she was twelve years old, back in Girl Scouts. Don’t let him take you back there . . .
Mongol . . . Faber . . . Staedtler . . . Ticonderoga . . .
Opposite the sink, she pushed aside a set of ratty curtains, revealing a four-pane window. Bigger than she thought. Crusted paint chips along the far ends of the sill. Good. Not painted shut. Anyone comes, that’s the way out.
“Nola, if you need to sit down . . .” He pointed to the closed toilet, a pinwheel of steam twirling in the wake of his motion.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, hating that concern in his voice, even as she caught herself in the slowly fogging mirror. Zig was right. She did look tired—exhausted, even—dark bags under her eyes. Her hair was greasy, stray strands pointing at different angles. From her earliest Army days, Nola was a street fighter put into a uniform. They taught her to be focused and in control. Now, the way she stood there, swaying slightly, she felt harried, off balance. She didn’t like it.