No Returns (The Blankenships Book 6) (9 page)

He stared at the phone, trying to remember the thing that he was supposed to do. When you found someone dead, there was a thing you did. He couldn’t remember.

He should call Zoey. Zoey would know what to do. When Claire – she had taken care of things—

He gagged again, but there was nothing left to throw up.

He was shivering. Quaking. His fingers were numb, cold, and the phone dropped out of them, falling into the mess beside him. He turned away from it; he didn’t want to touch it again. Ever.

He covered his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see her. He tried to breathe, but inhalation filled his lungs with the smells of iron and salt, and then it was too much, it was all way too much, and he was screaming. He was screaming like he was the one being torn to bits on the carpet, like he was the one who was dying. He picked up his phone, gagging at the sensation of wetness against his fingers, and managed to dial 911.

It took a moment for the operator to come on the line and ask him to state the nature of his emergency.

He thought he’d fumble the words, stumble through them. He thought that he wouldn’t know what to say. The words came out, though, smooth and precisely, just like she’d always taught him to speak. “Yes, I need to report a death,” he said. He gave his mother’s address. “Please send the police.”

The operator asked him something, was he sure, she would send an ambulance. He ended the call. There was nothing more to say. Maybe in some sort of dream, it would be possible for a person to lose that much blood and still live. Not in real life.

His brain kicked into a very specific gear. There would be press. He needed to look the part of the respectful, mourning head of a company that had experienced a loss. Right now, he looked like a drunk at the tail end of a bender. He forced himself up to his feet and went to his mother’s closets. She’d never thrown out anything of Philip’s, and Alex and his old man had been around the same size. Close enough, anyway. He found a pair of dark slacks and a button down shirt. They weren’t fashionable, but they weren’t covered in puke. They would do.

He stared at the dead body of Olivia Blankenship and began to consider what he would say to the press.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Evelyn Glass is a native of northern California who currently lives in New England with her wonderful husband and their two rambunctious Corgis. 

Her favorite past times include hiking and reading near the fireplace.

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