“I’m police,” Roddy said, pointing with his chin to the badge on his chest. “That’s my job—finding things that aren’t meant to be found. Nola and Mint . . . they spent time together.”
“Meaning they served together? Or they had something more—？”
“Huck! Huck . . . please . . . please just wait!” a female voice echoed from the hallway.
Zig turned just in time to see a lanky boy with a long neck—Mint’s son—as he burst through the gym doors, his mother, Tessa, chasing behind him.
“Ican’tIcan’tIcant,” Huck pleaded, moving quickly, shaking his head over and over. He wasn’t running. He was stumbling, practically falling, crashing on his knees, nearly slamming into the trophy case.
Behind him, in the gym, the crowd was singing a hymn—“How Great Thou Art”—their voices reverberating up the hallway.
“Ican’tIcan’t . . .” Huck repeated as his mother caught up to him, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around him, like he was a grenade and she was willing to take the impact.
“Huck . . . sweetie . . . I’m here . . . right here,” Tessa said. She started to say something else, but immediately knew words weren’t what mattered. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here,” she repeated, hugging him tighter than ever, young Huck twisting and turning, his face bright red, his teeth gritted, his long neck trying to stretch out of her grip, like his head was about to unscrew from his body. “We’ll get through this,” Tessa insisted.
Watching from the stairwell, all Zig could picture was his own daughter’s funeral, right as it started, as they were about to walk out from the private receiving area and enter the room that held the waiting crowd. As Zig had stepped forward, he reached over to hold his wife’s hand. She pulled away. Right there, Zig knew that Maggie wasn’t the only thing being buried that day.
“I-It’s too hard, Mom,” Huck said.
“It is,” Tessa agreed. “But I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. Now let’s go make Daddy proud.” And just like that, she tugged her son to his feet and they headed back toward the gym.
“God bless strong mothers, huh?” Zig said, still in the stairwell.
When Roddy didn’t reply, Zig glanced over his shoulder.
The stairwell was empty. Roddy—and Agent Flat Nose—were both gone.
8
This was Nola when she was fuming.
She was sketching, of course, sitting on the roof’s parapet, which was covered in bird shit. She didn’t care. Her pencil was moving in a blur.
Four floors down, the crowd exited the funeral, streaming into the street like an ever-expanding octopus. A few were crying and hugging, but the majority were making small talk, checking their phones, picking out where to go to lunch. No surprise, Nola thought. Death was terrible company. Three steps outside the funeral and most people just wanted to get back to their lives.
“To those joining the procession, please put a magnet on your car and put your bright headlights on,” a funeral employee announced. “Also, with a crowd of this size, please be aware of your surroundings.”
Nola was most definitely aware.
On her sketch pad, she drew every detail she remembered from the gym—the coffin in front, the pastor at the podium. She added some crosshatching to his chin, trying to get his face just right. He had watery eyes, cataracts coming. But the rendering . . . something still looked wrong. It was the same with every other face in the bleachers—from the man with the feral eyes and overgrown mustache to the forty-year-old woman whose kids sat next to her in size order—everyone looked too angular. Her line work was short and choppy.
Nola knew why. This was how she drew when she was distracted. Angry, if she was being honest. Fuming.