Page 2 of Pretty When She Breaks

“It’s the best I could do,” I muttered as I lifted the lid. “Promise you won’t haunt me now, okay?”

I had planned to slip the lipstick inside and close it again, but the temptation to glance at the body was too much.

It—he—was dressed in a suit, his body straightened by the coroner, I guessed. There was cloth covering the face, but I was drawn to the hair. It was short, cut by his ears, and instead of golden blond, it had a reddish tint.

That wasn’t my brother.

I lifted the lid higher, staring, because what the actual fuck? I looked down at the name carved on the casket, Julius Octavius Fairchild.

Jule had wispy blond curls.

This wasn’t Jule.

It wasn’t Jule.

I stepped back, the lid slamming closed, my heart racing.

A bright, light hope was soaring in my heart as I turned and ran for the doors. I knew it. I hadn’t failed him; he hadn’t been suicidal. The crowd turned to stare as I burst through the chapel doors and almost fell down the stone steps. My father straightened, an angry look on his face as I hurtled toward him.

“Father!” I gasped, almost bowling him over as I skidded to a stop in front of him. “I just saw the body—it’s not him! Jule might be alive somewhere!”

“What?” my father snarled.

The crowd had fallen silent around us, but I shook Father's arm. “I looked in the coffin—it’s not him!” I said again, trying to pull him toward the stairs. He had to believe me. I’d show him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Laurel,” Father said, wrenching himself free of my grasp. “Of course that’s your brother.”

I gaped at him, not quite understanding. “But, Father, I saw! It wasn’t him!” I repeated desperately.

My father’s dark eyes glinted before a fake smile settled on his face. He wrapped his arm around me, fingers digging painfully into my arm as he addressed the family around us. “Please excuse Laurel. It was such a sudden loss for all of us, and she hasn’t taken it well.”

“No, please!” I said, trying to pull away and looking around for help. There was none to be found. My family’s faces had shuttered, some with pity, some with disgust.

No.

Why didn’t he believe me?

My stomach dropped to my toes as a horrible thought occurred to me.

“Laurel, I know this is hard to accept,” my father was saying, his hand digging into my arm. “You haven’t been sleeping well, and his body was quite damaged. It’s understandable that your mind is trying to fabricate an easier alternative.”

“You did this,” I hissed, breaking free of his painful grip and whirling around.

Of course this was his fault.

I grabbed a fistful of his suit and ripped, a button popping off and clinking against the gravel beneath us.

“What did you do to him? Where is he?” I snarled, clawing at his chest.

My face was too hot, and my eyes were burning as I glared up at his cold expression. My scent was unfurling around me, hot and angry. I would never usually be so bold, but he couldn’t strike me here; his hands were tied in such a public place. He snatched my wrists, and I screamed in frustration.

“Escort her to the car!” my father called to his security as I aimed a kick at him.

My vision was starting to blur, burning-hot tears pouring down my face.

“I know you did this! Give him back!” I screamed, managing to get in a good, solid kick before hands grabbed me and started to drag me away.

“Excuse her,” my father said, smoothing out his wrinkled suit. “She just presented. She’s extremely unbalanced right now.”