her about these things. I want to talk to her. I want her to explain why she hid so much from me. Even if it’s just small things. I want to –’
‘She didn’t hide things from you,’ said Ren. ‘She was just extremely private.’
‘I guess she was kind of like that as a teenager.’
He went over to a cabinet in the corner, pulled out a photo and handed it to Ren. Ren stared at it and looked back at him.
He nodded. ‘Yup, that’s Jean.’
‘Wow,’ said Ren.
Who you are to your brothers and sisters is usually who you are at that time, not what you used to be. They watch you through all your changes and know there will always be more. They don’t hold you to the past. And they don’t always recall it. To Patrick Transom, his sister was a blonde, athletic FBI agent. The black-haired overweight goth was in the photograph was someone he could look back and smile at.
‘That’s quite a change,’ said Ren.
‘I know.’
He held the photo Ren had given him. ‘I’m … afraid to say that this isn’t Jean,’ he said. ‘Because it has to be, right? You wouldn’t be here if you had any doubt.’
‘I have a second photo,’ said Ren, handing it to him.
It was a section of Jean’s left shoulder with a birthmark.
He pointed to it. ‘You could see it in the summer when she wore sleeveless shirts.’
Ren gave him a gentle smile. ‘Thank you.’ She took a plastic bag from her pocket. ‘I have something else too.’ She handed it to him.
He broke down. ‘This is Jean’s. It’s her Brazilian good luck ribbon. You make three wishes, you tie three knots in it, then you leave it on until it falls off naturally. And then all your wishes come true. She had it for over a year, hidden under her watch strap. She couldn’t believe it still hung on in. It was driving her nuts.’ He stared down at the clean, severed edges. ‘I guess you cut it off …’ He paused. ‘I wonder what that means.’ He slipped it into the bag and handed it back to Ren. ‘The wait for the body is over,’ he said. ‘And now I have to start all over again and work out how I feel.’
‘Daddy?’ They turned as a beautiful little blonde girl walked into the room.
‘You must be Amber,’ said Ren. And there is something strangely familiar about you.
Amber nodded.
‘This is Ren Bryce,’ said Patrick. ‘She’s with the FBI, like Aunt Jean.’
‘Oh, hi,’ said Amber.
Ren was drawn to the little girl’s brown eyes and something in them she couldn’t quite define.
‘Daddy, could I get some juice, please?’
‘Sure, sweetheart, go ahead.’ She went to the refrigerator and took out a small carton of apple juice. ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’ she said.
‘Yes?’ said Ren.
‘I just wanted to tell you that my Aunt Jean wasn’t feeling very well the day we went shopping in Breckenridge before she died. We had to go home early …’
‘Really?’ said Ren. ‘That’s a shame.’
Amber nodded and smiled. ‘It was fun and I didn’t want to go home early. I was kind of mad …’ She glanced nervously at her father.
Oh, no. You feel guilty. ‘Amber, your Aunt Jean would understand how you could get mad having to go home early from something. Especially because she really wanted to hang out with you all day. That’s why she asked you to go shopping. She loved you a lot, I bet.’
Amber smiled. ‘OK,’ she said. They watched her skip out of the room.
‘She is beautiful,’ said Ren.
‘We’re hoping she doesn’t know quite how beautiful yet,’ he said, smiling after her. He turned back to Ren. ‘I’m sorry – what were we saying?’
‘I was about to tell you how well respected and loved by her colleagues your sister was. No one had a bad word to say about Jean. She clearly loved you, your wife and, like I said to Amber, your children. Their photos are all over – you must have seen her refrigerator. So, she had a tattoo on her back you didn’t know about,’ said Ren. ‘That’s just ink and needles.’ She paused. ‘And maybe a few tequilas …’
Patrick smiled.
‘Nothing at this stage matters,’ said Ren, ‘except the fact that you were brother and sister, and you loved each other.’
I hope I’m helping.
He reached out. Ren wasn’t sure what he wanted. He squeezed her left hand. She could see he was struggling to speak, this sweet, gentle man.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
It was eleven p.m. when Ren reached the Brockton Filly. As she walked across the packed parking lot, she could feel the music throbbing. As she came closer to the building, she saw the sign on the door: Open Mic night. And when she opened the door to the bar, she realized that the music was trying to kill the singer.
She pushed through the rowdy crowd – a younger, crazier bunch than the quiet old alcoholics that were sucking the lifeblood out of her the last time. Billy Waites had turned the Filly around. It had customers. Ren took a slot at the bar where no one seemed to be serving. She leaned her elbow on it and turned away, drawn to the little lady on the bar stool with the giant guitar and the intuitive amp. She was winding down.
‘Thank God for that.’ Billy’s voice. Instant impact. Ren turned slowly. But he wasn’t talking to her. He was leaning into a blonde two people away from her. Oh. Ren faltered. Her heart was letting her down; weighing too much, beating too fast. She had no drink to knock back, nothing to grip to stop her hand from shaking. Billy looked up. They locked eyes. He drew quickly back from the blonde and came toward her.
‘Hi.’ There was hurt and happiness in his eyes.
‘Hi,’ said Ren.
‘You look good with a tan.’ He smiled.
‘You too.’ She smiled back.
They stared at each other. People were shouting orders at Billy, but he didn’t move. People were trying to push Ren away from the bar, but she didn’t move.
‘So …’ said Billy.
‘This is weird.’
‘Yup.’
She looked around the bar. ‘I didn’t think it would be so –’
Billy
