I search the rest of the apartment for some kind of sign. There’s nothing that gives me any clue. His phone is sitting on the coffee table, with messages lighting up the screen. Hence, no answer. Fuck.
****
ROCCO
The morgue is closed, but the cops have a key. They lead me down a series of corridors, and stand me in front of a glass viewing-window, with a beige curtain closed on the other side.
The male officer stands behind me to the left and the female officer walks into another room. My heart thumps in my chest like a frightened bird trying to escape.
Then the curtains open. A silver trolley with a white sheet laid over a human figure is wheeled closer to the window.
I rub at my eyes. Am I really doing this?
She slowly pulls the white sheet up, exposing bare feet. She folds the linen back, so it rests on the figure’s collarbone.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper as the harsh reality hits me like spear through the heart. “Fuck!”
It’s him. My baby brother.
It’s not supposed to be him.
“Mr De Luca, is this your brother, Vincent De Luca?”
It’s him, but it’s more like a wax version. There’s no pinkish colour to his cheeks. The familiar tattoos weave over the pale skin of his shoulders and neck. The jagged scar on his left cheek is more pronounced. All essence of who my brother was has left him. Now, my only sibling is nothing but a shell.
It breaks my heart into a thousand worthless pieces.
I nod. “It’s him,” I choke out.
What a waste. He had such potential. I know we’d had our disagreements, but I loved him like no other. He was all I had left. We were the last of the De Lucas. Now, I’m it.
It’s a cruel kick in the guts seeing him lying there. I wasn’t with him in those final moments. He died in jail. Alone.
I did this to him. He told me not to say anything. I did this.
I wanna hurl him into my arms, squeeze him until I’m too weak to stand. I want to cry until I’m dry, and I never fucking cry. I hate it. Crying is for the weak. Standing here before his lifeless body, I’m as useless as I’ve ever been. I wanna fight with him, ask him what the fuck he was thinking. Why did he get involved in the MC in the first place? Why did he have to be so fucking proud and choose to ignore me, and side with our prick of a father instead? I wanna yell and wrestle him to the ground as I did when we were kids, but I won’t get the chance to do that ever again.
The cops are watching me. As if they give a damn about V. They probably see shit like this every day. He’s just another death to them, but to me he was everything. He was all I had.
Whether they’ve tried to cover them up or not, there are puncture wounds down the side of his neck. One. Two. Three. Counting each one churns the acid in my gut, compelling it up my throat. I swallow down, and cough as the sting subsides.
Whoever did this, they meant business. Was it revenge, or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Where did he die? The yard? In his cell? Who was with him? Who could commit such a vile act and get away with it?
“Can I touch him?”
“I’m afraid you can’t … not until the coroner has released the body.”
I look down at his pale feet. “Why the fuck does he have a paper tag on his toe?”
“It’s for identification.”
“He’s just lying there like a piece of meat. Isn’t he cold?” I bash my fist up against the window frame and suck in a deep breath. “It can’t fuckin’ be him. He’s the only family I have left.”
A small hand is placed between my shoulder blades. “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do for you, please call.”
“Can you bring him back?” I shout. “’Cause that’s all I fuckin’ want. Bring him back.”
The male officer guides me away from the window with his large hands on my shoulders. Hot tears pour down my face.
“I just want my brother,” I choke out.
“I know, mate. I know.”
They make me sign some piece of paper identifying him for the coroner. I want to rip it to shreds. It’s another cruel validation that he’s gone.
“Now what?” I sigh.
“The Coroner will release the body in a day or so, and then you can make the necessary arrangements with a funeral director,” he says.
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.