I swallow down and nod.

I can’t see him in a box. He’s fuckin’ twenty-five, for Christ’s sake. He doesn’t belong in a box. He doesn’t belong six feet under the ground in the cold, dark earth.

“Unfortunately, I’m unable to provide you with any recommendations for a funeral director. Is there someone I can call for you who can help you with the details?”

This is all on me. My responsibility. No one else’s.

“Nope. I’ll do it.” I wipe my runny rose with the back of my hand. “When do I find out what happened? I need answers. Someone has to pay for this.”

“We’re interviewing witnesses. As he died in custody, there’ll be an inquest into the circumstances of his death. We’ll conduct our own criminal investigation, but I need to tell you though, it can take a few weeks to gather evidence and take statements. The coroner can take a lot longer to deliver their findings.”

The female officer emerges from behind me and hands me a business card and a large brown paper bag.

“If you have any questions at all, please call me. We collected these things earlier from the jail. We thought it would be easier than you having to go down there.”

She’s right. If I were to step foot in that place, my fists would be swinging until I got answers.

“Thanks.”

When the cops drop me back home, I go straight to my room. I collapse on the bed and pour the contents of the bag out in front of me.

The black dress shirt and jeans he wore to court are neatly folded. I hold them over my heart and breathe in deep, disappointed at the absence of his scent. I pick up the chunky gold cross on a tangled chain. Mamma bought each of us one when we had our confirmation in primary school. I haven’t worn mine in years. I scoop up his chunky silver rings and about a hundred bucks in notes and a few coins.

Fuck, that’s it?

I check the bag again. Stuck to the bottom is a faded photo that I printed out for him and gave to him on my first visit. It’s the same picture of us that I have on the fridge. The edges are worn, the photo cracked in places.

He clutched this photo, just as I’m holding it now.

The contents of this bag are all I have left of him. How can this be all that’s left of a life?

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SOPHIE

I ring Spencer and report my findings as I drive to the closest police station. When they don’t give me answers, and threaten to lock me up for being a public nuisance, I drive to the next. After three police stations, I’m running out of options. I’m dead on my feet. What else can I do?

I ring Spencer. “No one can tell me where he is.”

“I’ve got nothing either, and Mac hasn’t heard from him.”

“I guess all I can do is go home and wait.”

“I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” Spencer says, and lets out a loud sigh.

“Thanks.”

“He’ll be okay, Soph. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just something stupid like unpaid parking fines. The man never pays his tickets.”

“I hope you’re right.”

As I dash between the car and the apartment, the pouring rain soaks me right to the skin. When I get inside, the place is as silent as it was when I left it in a flat panic earlier.

I change into a tank and pyjama shorts and start cleaning up the kitchen bench, tossing the dry, crumbly pasta in the rubbish. I sweep the flour off the floor and wipe down the bench.

Not having eaten anything for dinner, I lather some butter and vegemite between two slices of bread, and scoff them down in record time. Of course, I end up giving myself the hiccups.

When I walk towards my room, that’s the moment I hear it.

The sobbing. The sniffing.

In relief, I fill my lungs with a long, deep breath. He’s here … but something is wrong. Rocco does not cry. My chest deflates. Whatever is going on behind that door, it doesn’t sound good. No one cries over unpaid fines.

To put his friend’s mind at ease, I quickly shoot a text to Spencer.

Me: He’s home. I’ll find out what the deal is and get back to you in the morning.

Carefully I open his door. A flash of lightning beams into the room through the open blinds, highlighting Rocco’s curled up frame, his back to me.

“Rocco?” I whisper over the constant patter of rain against the window.

He sniffs and his shoulders slump, yet he doesn’t say a word. Whether he wants me to or not, I slip under the sheets behind him and squeeze around his middle.

“What’re you doin’, Suds?” he rasps.

I tighten my hold on him. He grips my hand and pulls it to his chest.

“We’ve all been worried sick about you,” I say softly.

“Who?”

“Me, Spencer, Mac.”

“What the fuck for?” he barks. Did I say something wrong?

“When you left … with the cops and you wouldn’t answer your phone, Spencer was the first person I called.”

“I didn’t have my phone.”

“I went down to the nearest police station and asked for you. Demanded someone fucking talk to me, but no one would.” The rain pounds harder against the window frame, sending a chill through me. I hold him tighter, drawing on his warmth.

“You did that for me? Not even knowing what the fuck the cops were doing here?”

“Yes. I was worried.”

He lets out an exasperated breath. “Fuck me, girl.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Don’t ever fuckin’ apologise for shit like that. Not to me or anyone else.”

“What’s happening with you, De Luca? Talk to me.”

He fists the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. “Argh!” he growls.

I lower his arms to his chest and take his prickly jaw in my hands. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”

He chokes on a sob, and it slices right through my heart. “Vinnie.” His voice breaks at the mention of the name. “He’s dead.”

I gasp for air.

No. He’s lost his brother?

The police were here to tell him? Where did they take him?

“I’m so—”

“Sorry?” he spits out.

Tears fall down my face, as I blink and nod.

“Please don’t fuckin’ cry. I can handle that on top of this.”

“I’m sorry.” I wipe my cheeks with my palms and suck in a deep breath. “That’s why the police were here?” I try to say it with some kind of composure. I have to be strong for him.

“I had to”—he strangles a heart-breaking sob—“identify him.”

Oh my God. I cover my mouth with my hand. He was at the morgue? He had to do that shit by himself?

“His death is on me, because I opened my mouth and they put him in protection. I did this.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell him as I take his closest hand and squeeze. Surely he doesn’t think that?

Rocco growls loudly and clears his throat. “Fuck this shit,” he curses, and tosses the covers off him. He stalks into the kitchen, still wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with what looks like remnants of flour on it.

Frantically, he opens and slams cupboard doors until he finds what he’s been looking for. He slams the familiar-shaped bottle on the bench.

Tequila.

I thought we’d tipped every last drop down the sink. Did he buy some since or had he stashed some? My Nana had trouble destroying it all, and it took years before she had the strength of will to.

“Rocco, no.” I try to say it firmly, but my voice is strangled by unshed tears. Don’t cry. You’re not helping.

He takes a glass from the dish drainer on the sink and sits it hard beside the bottle. Tears stream down his pale face as he unscrews the bottle top.

“Don’t,” I say in a quiet voice, placing my hand on his forearm.

“You don’t know how fucking hard this is,” he yells. He can’t even look me in the eye.

With my finger I turn his head to face me and stare him down. “You’re right, I don’t, and I’m so sorry this happened. Don’t fall back into old habits now.”