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The day was overcast, solemn grey like the tombstone. To his right, Sloane shivered, her blue gaze staring straight ahead, boring holes into the back of Cassie’s head. Dean stood with Cassie, one hand on her shoulder.
Michael glanced over at Sloane. On one level, it was impolite to probe—he’d lost it at Dean a few times for profiling him, same as Cassie hated how he read her face. But their powers—these abilities—were as natural to them as breathing. He could no more stop reading others than he could stop his sense of smell (though occasionally it was prudent to not voice his findings).
And despite dealing with facts first and foremost, Sloane was always painfully, trivially easy to read. It was all there, in the furrow of blonde brows, the rhythm of her sniffles (three second intervals).
Aaron Shaw was dead. Aaron Shaw had been the heir apparent of a casino mogul. “Quiet, private funeral” in their world meant under 300 people, maybe. Business partners. Friends. “Friends.” People from all over had attended, had been invited. To remember, to share—to grieve (in name or otherwise).
Outside of this circle, no one would allow Sloane to grieve. When a sister, a daughter, didn’t even rank on the level of your poker buddy across the table…
Sloane’s red-rimmed eyes stared at the tombstone, to Cassie’s head, and back again. Her hands twitched for something to steal.
They were here for Cassie, who’d been through more than most—who would go through still more, given what they had learned about her mother. No closure, at least not yet. No end, no neat little bow.
But closure was a lie, a sick joke. And it was televised on Sloane’s face, even if few could see it—guilt, grief, shame, sorrow, and a sick kind of envy. She didn’t want it, didn’t want to feel it, but it was there all the same. Emotions didn’t follow reason (Michael would know. He and reason were often ships passing by in the night).
It wasn’t fair, but under whatever context and whatever pretense, Cassie could grieve. Was allowed to, had more reason to than most. All Sloane had left of Aaron—of any of the Shaws—was her silk shirt, two handwritten cards tucked in her laptop bag, and the name of a brother she wasn’t allowed to have. She could find out where he was buried, but no one would answer if she asked. Illegitimate. Nonexistent.
I’m not like my father.
Mundane grief was still grief, and it hurt all the same.
I’m not his sister anymore.
Her eyes caught his. Sloane looked down, ashamed, and bit her lip. Please don’t say anything. No one could begrudge Cassie this.
Lia looked over from Sloane’s other side. She knew, too; Sloane’s face was no better at lying than the rest of her. Lia’s gaze fell on the silk shirt, worn for eight days straight (Judd had sent it to the dry cleaners on day four).
Michael could barely make out the words Lia whispered to Sloane: “press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. It helps block your tear ducts.”
Sloane blinked, once, twice, and opened her mouth—probably to tell Lia the exact improbability of the tongue effecting any change on the tear ducts. Michael slipped his hand in Sloane’s and squeezed, shh.
Sloane shut her mouth. She looked between them, back and forth, at the quirk of his mouth and Lia’s minutely-arched brow. After a long moment, Sloane’s mouth tightened, but something relaxed around her eyes. She squeezed back, one nail dragging against the still-healing welts on his wrist. As an afterthought, she snagged Lia’s hand too, and squeezed her hand just as tight.
Lia almost managed to not look surprised, save for a brief flicker in dark brown eyes.
There was an anatomy lecture in Lia’s near future. From the crinkle of Lia’s nose, she knew it too—and didn’t mind (much). Lia was good at distractions.
We are at issue capacity, Lia had informed him with no room for argument. His ribs and wrist ached with agreement. This isn’t your time.
“Are you ready?” Dean asked Cassie.
A pause. “I’m ready,” Cassie and Sloane said at the same time, one aloud, one silent; neither was a lie.