Four Found Dead by Natalie D. Richards

Author:Natalie D. Richards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2022-12-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

“Quincy?”

His head lolls to one side, and fear scales my spine with icy hands. My vision blurs, and all I can see is my father, the pool of blood beneath his outstretched arm. The strange shift in his eyes when his last breath was exhaled.

This can’t be happening again.

Daddy? Daddy?

I shake the memories back and push my hands harder against Quincy’s arm—hard enough to jostle him. Hard enough to hurt. He gasps, and his eyes fly open.

“Stay with me!” I say. It’s a thing TV doctors say, but not everyone agrees it’s medically necessary or in some cases even the best course of action. But I say it again anyway. “Try to stay awake, okay?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding a little. “I can do that.”

He hisses when I slightly adjust my hand on his wound.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince. “I need to keep the pressure on this.”

“Did I get all of the glass out?”

“I’m not sure. I honestly haven’t looked.” I don’t add that it was the most dangerous thing he could have possibly done; it’s too late to bother with that now. And unless my eyes are deceiving me, I think the bleeding has significantly slowed.

“Doesn’t this bother you?” he asks, his eyes drifting vaguely over my body.

I look down and take in the carnage. Blood stains my jeans, and my hands and arms are a grisly mess. It should bother me, I think, but I’m shocked to find it doesn’t. Maybe because this time I’m not watching it happen. I’m fixing it. Or, at the very least, I’m trying.

“Not really,” I say. “Is that weird?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “Are your parents doctors too?”

I shake my head. “No. Uh, my mom is an airline attendant. She travels a lot.”

That’s putting it lightly. My dad was the glue that held our family together. Without him, the three of us drift along, Cara and I together and my mom floating in and out on weekends and slow travel times. It’s not a bad relationship, per se, but we mostly communicate through text messages and Post-it Notes on the fridge.

“And your dad?”

My heart sinks. “My dad owned a gas station. I lost him when I was nine.”

Quincy’s face contorts. “I’m sorry, Jo.”

“It was a long time ago,” I say. Because nine years is a long time. Even if some days it feels like seventy years won’t be enough to make me stop missing him.

“My brother died when I was seven. Diabetes.”

I’m afraid to meet his eyes now. It’s easier to talk about my father’s death with people who don’t understand. There are polite ways to talk about it. You use words like lost or passed because dead and died make people squirm. They’ll inevitably tell you they’re sorry, and then you’ll assure them that it’s been a long time or he didn’t suffer or whatever other bullshit line works. You can always find a line that will hit the brakes on the whole topic. People who haven’t lost anyone are happy to pretend death doesn’t exist at all.

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