Page 44 of Girl, Empty (Ella Dark #27)
Ella hadn’t cried throughout the priest’s eulogy. She hadn’t cried when an older woman told a story of her son driving three hours to trap a rat in her garage. She hadn’t even cried when the coffin disappeared behind the velvet curtain and took Ben into the fire.
Tears were a private indulgence, and Ella hadn’t earned the right, not when this whole funeral was her fault.
But now, outside the chapel, walking through the amateur shrine to her ex’s life, the tears ambushed her.
Rows of tables were covered in white linen, all laden with wreaths of lilies and photos propped up on small wire easels.
Ben’s family had arranged his life in chronological order; baby photos where he looked like a confused potato, school pictures with a cowlick that never laid flat.
Then his university years through to his working life, concluding with photos of a shirtless Ben posing in a wrestling ring.
The sobs tore from her throat, and for a moment she was suddenly cradling a dead bird at five years old again, asking her aunt why things had to die when they still had life to live.
She stopped at a display of sympathy cards and glanced back at the crowd that were still falling out of the chapel. There’d been an incredible turnout, more than Ella had ever imagined, and that just made the whole thing even worse.
‘Thank you for coming.’
Ella spun and saw a woman staring at her beneath a veiled hat; the same woman who'd told the story about the rat in her garage. Ben's mother. A woman, Ella, had never been during their time together.
‘Mrs. Carter. I’m so sorry.’
‘I recognized you from the pictures. You look exactly the same.’
‘I… I don’t know what to say. I miss him.’ The truth fought for escape, but Ella swallowed it down. I did this. Your son is dead because he knew me.
‘He talked about you. Even after he moved away. He never let you go.’
Ella swiped at new tears. ‘I talked about him too. I wish things had been different.’
‘I’m just happy he held onto some good memories. Thank you for the card, too. It meant a lot to me that you sent it.’
Her intestines twisted into knots. Her well of tears dried up. ‘The card?’
Mrs. Carter gestured to the table. ‘The picture of you two. I’m happy you kept it. Ben look really happy there.’
Another mourner summoned Mrs. Carter over, and she left Ella alone.
Ella turned back to the table, then scoured the cards one by one until she found a glossy picture of her and Ben ankle-deep in the Atlantic at Ocean City beach.
Some tourist had offered to take their picture, and Ben had whispered something filthy in her ear just as the camera clicked.
The sound of the other mourners, the scent of the lilies, all of it became distant. All she could feel were the cold trails of drying moisture on her cheeks.
Ella hadn’t sent this card.
Her thumb found the edge of the card, and she bent the stiff photo paper open. The inside was a sterile white, except for a single line of script at the very bottom.
Death is the greatest form of love.
No name. No signature.
Someone had stood here, among the mourners, close enough to smell the flowers and hear Mrs. Carter's tears. Close enough to place this calling card among the genuine condolences. Close enough to watch Ella discover it. Or if not that, they’d mailed it straight to Ben’s family.
And this card, with its image of a stolen, happy moment, was suddenly the most obscene object she had ever held.
Her right hand brushed against the lapel of her jacket, and she felt the stiff, sharp rectangle of folded paper inside the lining. She checked no one was looking, folded the card up and slid it into the opposite pocket.
There was no more room for tears. If Ella wanted to end this, she couldn’t it from California or D.C.
The only place this ended was in a cell in Louisiana.
And she had the signed paperwork for an immediate and unrestricted visit.