Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

“Do you think that might be her?” Molly whispered.

“I–I guess,” Chris replied under his breath. “It sounds mean, but I always thought Mr. Corson’s wife would be really pretty. They have a daughter around my age — and she’s supposed to be kind of weird. So maybe. .”

The two people moved away from the woman, and Molly meekly approached her. “Mrs. Corson?”

The woman stared at her. “I’m Ms. Corson. I’m Ray’s sister, Sherry.” She held out her hand.

Molly shook it. “Hello, Sherry. I’m so sorry for your loss. My name’s Molly Dennehy.”

“This is my daughter, Serena. . ” Ray Corson’s sister started to gesture toward the teenage girl. But she hesitated. “Did you say Dennehy ?”

“Yes,” Chris piped up. “I’m Chris. Mr. Corson was my guidance counselor at James Monroe. I was hoping I could talk with Mrs. Corson. . ”

“ Dennehy, ” the woman repeated, scowling at them. “I know that name. I’ve heard about you from Jenna.”

“I’d like to talk with her — and — and — and explain some things,” Chris said in a shaky voice.

Molly put a hand on his shoulder. She could feel him trembling.

Ray Corson’s sister slowly shook her head. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”

Molly cleared her throat. “If we could just talk to your sister-in-law. .”

“Jenna is in Yakima with her sister,” Sherry whispered. “She’s in no condition to see anyone. . ”

“Well, she went there before Uncle Ray was killed even,” the girl piped up. “She was ready to leave him—”

“Serena, please,” her mother growled.

“Well, she was!” the girl said, rolling her eyes. “And still, Uncle Ray left everything to her. Anyway, Aunt Jenna’s not even in Yakima right now—”

“That’s enough, young lady,” her mother hissed. “Why don’t you see if Grandma Berry needs a glass of water or something?”

The girl rolled her eyes again. “Excuse me for living,” she muttered, wandering off.

“Do you happen to have her address in Yakima?” Molly asked. “Someplace we can send a card or flowers?”

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” she asked. “For God’s sake, leave her alone. She’s been through hell, thanks to you people.”

“Is — is their daughter okay?” Chris asked suddenly. “The last time I talked with him, Mr. Corson said he was worried about her, because she was having a lot of problems.”

“Tracy ran away two months ago,” Sherry said. “She hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Now, if you don’t have any more questions, would you please leave? I have nothing more to say to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris murmured. “I really am.”

“My condolences,” Molly said to the woman. She gave Chris’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon, honey.”

She steered him toward the exit. She noticed Serena, the Goth girl, talking with an old woman. She gave Chris a crooked smile, but he seemed oblivious. Molly waited until they reached the lobby before she patted him on the back. “Are you okay?” she whispered. “I know that was rough. But you have to remember, people say things they don’t really mean when they’re grieving.”

He jerked away from her. “Would you leave me alone?” he grumbled.

Perplexed, Molly backed off. “Fine. . ”

“I’m going to take the bus home, okay?”

“Why? Chris, honey, that doesn’t make sense. Are you upset at me about something?”

Chris hurried for the door and ducked outside. Molly went after him. He paused by the entry — under an awning that was flapping in the wind. He put on his sunglasses.

“Chris, what’s wrong?” Molly asked him. “Are you angry with me?”

“You’re the one who insisted we go to the principal about Mr. Corson.” He shook his head. “I never should have told you what I saw. None of it would have happened if I’d just kept my mouth shut.”

“You’re blaming me?” Molly asked. “For this?” She motioned toward the glass double doors to the funeral parlor. “Chris, Mr. Corson isn’t dead because of us. What happened back in December—”

“Leave me alone!” he yelled, cutting her off. “God!”

A passerby on the sidewalk stared at them. Chris glanced down at the pavement. “I’m taking the bus back,” he said quietly.

Molly sighed. “Suit yourself. But can I say something?”

“What?” he muttered.

“Why is it, Chris, every time I start to feel we’re really connecting, you pull the rug out from under me? And once again, I’m just this stranger you resent, living in your mother’s house.”

“ Pull the rug out from under me, ” he repeated. “Is that another one of your expressions? Because I don’t understand it.”

“Yes, you do,” she replied. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You did it to me again just now.”

She turned and started down the sidewalk. “Be home in time for supper,” she called over her shoulder. “Your father’s expecting you.”

Molly knew she’d worry about him until then.

Outside the north entrance to Seattle Central Community College, she blended in with a few other students who had stepped outside for a smoke. But she didn’t talk to them. She was too focused on what was happening across the street in front of Bonney-Watson Funeral Home.

Chris Dennehy was wearing a tie and some nice khaki pants. In all the times she’d followed him, she hadn’t seen him this dressed up before. She’d had a feeling he would be here today.

Chris hadn’t noticed her at all, and neither had anyone else.

He seemed to be having a heated discussion with his stepmother. “Leave me alone! God!” His voice boomed over the traffic noise.

His stepmother said something to him and then walked away. Chris stood there on the sidewalk, rubbing his forehead. He’d certainly gotten his wish. His stepmother had left him alone — and maybe even a bit stranded.

She smiled.

It was just how she would get to him — when he was all alone.

* * *

Chris paced back and forth under the funeral parlor’s awning. He didn’t know why he’d gotten so mad at Molly. Mostly he was disappointed. After coming all this way, he hadn’t even had a chance to see Mrs. Corson.

There had been only Mr. Corson’s sister making him feel horrible.

Despite everything she’d said, he still wanted to talk with Jenna Corson. Part of him wanted to apologize and explain his side of things to her. But mostly, he needed to connect with someone else who grieved for Mr. Corson. Maybe he could even help her somehow. After all, wouldn’t she want to know how important her husband had been to him?

Chris took off his sunglasses and stepped back inside the funeral home. At the doorway of the viewing room, he scanned the crowd for Mr. Corson’s niece, Serena. At the same time, he kept an eye out for her mother. He dreaded another run-in with her.

For a few moments, he found himself just staring at the bronze casket at the far end of the room. It was hard to fathom Mr. Corson lying inside it. Chris imagined the three bullet wounds in him, now plugged up by some mortician.

He went back to looking over the crowd and finally spotted the Goth girl with an elderly man. She nodded at something the old man said, but still had a bored look in her heavily madeup eyes.

Threading through the crowd, Chris made his way to her. She glanced at him and let out a little laugh. Then she looked at the elderly man again. “Really nice talking with you,” she said loudly.

Turning toward Chris, she rolled her eyes. “Shit, there are so many old people here, and all of them are close talkers — with bad breath. And I’m stuck here until seven, too. Please, kill me now.” She sighed, then looked him up and down. “So you’re the one who caused all the fuss. Well, I heard you were cute. That’s certainly true.”