Page 9 of The Dearly Departed

“Anna,” I muttered, half dreaming, half asleep, my head moving erratically.

“Abraham! Help!”

My eyes fluttered open to stare at a wall of boxes. In a disoriented haze, I wondered where the hell I was and what the hell I was doing there while the old, gaping wound in my heart throbbed and bled out onto the floor.

How something from years ago could still hurt so badly after I’d since lived through so much more pain—I could never understand it. How the nightmares could feel as fresh as if they’d happened yesterday.

Then I remembered.

We ran away.

We’re at the funeral home.

We were sleeping.

“What are you boys doing in here?!”

Well, that was a voice I didn’t recognize.

I clambered to my feet to find an older guy—with a head full of gray hair and a wrinkled face—holding Ike by the collar of that ugly windbreaker. Shawn was awake, too, standing a foot away from them, a bottle of soda held high in his hand like it had the chance of protecting him.

“Let him go,” I warned, taking a step toward the old guy and my brother.

“What are you kids doing in here?” the man asked, still clutching Ike’s collar.

From my back pocket, I pulled out my butterfly knife and flipped it open, exposing the sharpened blade and holding it up.

“I said, let him go,” I grumbled, closing in on him.

The old man’s gaze flickered with wide-eyed fear at the sight of my blade. I supposed the height I had on him helped a bit too. I might only be sixteen, but the last time I’d checked, I was closing in on six foot five. This old guy couldn’t have been any more than five foot three—and that was being kind.

“So, you’re the ringleader,” the guy guessed.

From the corner of my eye, Shawn—with renewed confidence now that I was awake and sufficiently armed—approached from the other side with his trusty soda bottle.

There wasn’t a bone in my body that wanted to do any harm to this guy. As far as I was concerned, he hadn’t done anything to deserve it. But want and need were two entirely different things, and if I had to slash his hand or arm to get Ike away from him and make a run for it, I wouldn’t think twice.

The old man met my eye and asked, “Is your name Abraham?”

Fuck you for that introduction, Ike.

“Let him go, and you’ll never see our faces again.”

“How old are you, Abraham?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

I had to give it to the guy; he never flinched. Not even with a five-inch blade centimeters from his face.

He looked away from me, and I was sure he had to be crazy. Who the hell looked away from a guy holding a weapon?

He knows you’re not going to do anything. He’s calling your bluff.

Cut him.

My hand started to tremble, and I focused on steeling my nerves. I didn’t want to hurt him. I just wanted to get my brother and leave. But this old fucker was being difficult.

So, cut him.