Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I snap my eyes up to his. "Two days after she was at the house?"
I shake my head, a sliver of hope growing inside of me.
"It can't be her. She was in South Carolina. Didn't you check the bus stations? The airport? How did she make it over there so quickly if she didn't fly or take some form of public transportation?"
"Cora," he says, the same softness in his tone the doctor had when he came out into the waiting room after Dad's heart attack. "It's her."
I continue to shake my head. "It's not. We can prove it. I want to see the body."
His lips form a flat line. "That's not possible."
"Of course, it's possible," I snap, standing and brushing my hands down the front of my clothes as if straightening my dress will help me put my chaotic life back together.
"She was buried in a pauper's grave."
"A pauper's grave?"
"It's what they have to do when they don't have—"
"I know what a pauper's grave is," I growl before I can get my reaction under control.
This man isn't trying to insult me. He's trying to help me understand. But there's no way of understanding why he'd think for a second I'd believe my twenty-three-year-old sister is gone from this world.
I can't.
I won't.
"We tested her DNA against yours," he says, standing up beside me as if he might try and stop me if I attempt to leave.
"What? How? If the body has been buried—"
"They keep samples on file in hopes they can ID someone at a later date."
"I want proof," I say with tears still streaming down my face.
"I have copies of the DNA results being emailed to me," he says.
I shake my head, lifting my hand to dash away my tears. "No. I need more than that."
Sadness fills his face. "They have pictures, but, Cora, you don't want to see those. You don't want them in your head. Trust me."
He's probably right. The last memory I want of my little sister shouldn't be of her deceased, but how is it any worse than the last conversation I had with her that might've contributed to her death?
"I have to see them," I whisper, beginning to deflate, defeat taking over my body until it seems like I weigh a million pounds.
"I understand," he says. "They should be in my email."
Dread swims inside of me as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
"No," I snap when he goes to turn it around to face me. "I want her body exhumed."
"I don't think—"
"I'm not paying you to think, Mr. Yarrow. If it truly is Sadie, then we have to bring her home. We have to give her a proper burial."
I don't know where I find the strength to say this without each and every word being released on a sob, but somehow, I manage.
"I'm sorry," I say after hearing the way I just spoke to him.
"It's fine. Listen—"
I hold my hand up in front of him when he takes a step closer to me, but it doesn't stop him from getting in my space.
When his arms wrap around me, I lose it, worse than I did while sitting on the couch.
He holds me while I cry. When I can no longer hold my weight up, he guides me to the sofa and keeps his arms around me like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to comfort a woman after getting the worst news of her life.
Sadie was eleven when my mother died, and as much as I tried not to mother her, it was just the position I was put into by default. I can't help but feel like I've lost more than a sister.
I know without confirmation that Sadie is gone. I wouldn't have been given the news if they were still looking for answers. Neither Mr. Anderson nor Eddie seem like the type of men who would tell me something without being absolutely sure their information was correct.
"She's gone," I sob into his chest, feeling the warmth of his kind soul when he holds me just a little tighter.
I don't know how long I stay in his arms, but my eyes feel like sandpaper and I can taste salt when I lick my lips. I have no doubt I look atrocious when I pull back and look up at him. Bless him for not looking like I've overstayed my welcome when he looks back down at me.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. "We can make arrangements—"
I shake my head and attempt to swallow down my pain.
"I just need a few minutes," I whisper.
He dips his head as if he understands my need to spend a moment not thinking about all my failures where Sadie is concerned.
Like I did when I claimed the chocolate-covered almonds earlier, I want to be selfish, to take something of my own, regardless of whether this is absolutely the worst time to do so.