The Wrong Wright

CHAPTER 1: Wilted peonies The sound of the last mourner’s car faded down the gravel road; the funeral was over. And just like that, the house fell eerily silent. It was a boon and a bane. For hours that felt like it wouldn’t end, people filled our little living room, murmuring condolences, clutching containers of casseroles, and whispering the same overused, tired lines about “time healing all wounds.” Even as they said it, I knew they didn't believe it, especially old Hargreeve. His lips spoke condolence, but his eyes held a not so subtle warning to me about paying up the rent. I just ignored him. Hattie closed the door softly, like she was afraid it might shatter if she pushed too hard. She had been unnecessarily careful, like she would fall apart if she let go. I was sitting in the same position I had been all day on Jackson's favourite worn-out couch. I was still in my black dress, my hands wrapped around the edges of his only framed photograph. I was staring unseeingly at the half-empty teacups on the table. I didn't think I had it in me to clean those up later. “Finally,” Hattie muttered, kicking off her heels. “That was the last of them. I've been patiently waiting for this the whole day. If one more person tells me Jackson’s in a better place, I might lose it.” She sighed, rubbing her arms as she turned toward me. She looked at me, then the photograph in my hands. “They brought too many casseroles again,” she muttered. “Half of it will go bad before morning.” I turned in the direction of the untouched dishes stacked on the counter. They had really brought a lot. Jackson would have been thrilled. He loved food. And casserole was his favourite. If it wasn't my twin brother's funeral, I would have snorted about people always bringing food to funerals. Hattie stood around for a while and then began packing up the used teacups and dishes into the kitchen. I stared at the framed photo in my hand. Jackson was grinning in his flight jacket, eyes bright and shining in that silly way that made one laugh along with him. I couldn’t believe my twin brother was gone. “He should’ve been here,” I whispered. Hattie paused at the doorway, then exhaled slowly. “Em, please don’t—” “No, I mean it.” I turned toward her. “Something’s off. You know it, I know it.” Her expression hardened. “We are not doing this again,” she disappeared into the kitchen with more stacked cups. I shot up from the couch and followed her, still gripping the framed photograph. She was dumping the cups in the sink when I entered. Jackson, worked at an airstrip in the city, and suddenly one day, three weeks ago, we were called to the hospital by the police to find him riddled with bullets, and in a critical state. He passed away after being in a coma for two weeks. “He had bullet wounds, Hattie!” My voice cracked. “f*****g bullet wounds! Five of them. Tell me, how does someone go to work at God knows what airstrip, and end up pumped full of bullets? That’s not just a random incident!” She rubbed her temples, that practiced calm creeping back into her voice. “Em, we’ve been through this. The police—” “The police don’t care!” I snapped. “And frankly I don't care what they said. I don't believe that thing about a robbery gone wrong—” “But that was what they found out.” “His wallet was found intact, Hattie. It was still on him. Tell me what robber shoots his victim dead without taking a dime from him?!” Hattie blinked, and her breath shuddered. “That's enough, Em.” She was tired, and broken. I looked at her, my baby sister, who had somehow grown older than me in the past few weeks, and for a moment, I hated her calm. Her logic. Her acceptance. Her strength. I knew that she was hurting, but she was accepting the reality that our brother was dead better than I was. “They closed the case in two weeks. Two weeks! Jackson deserved better than that. You know it.” Her jaw tightened. The next second, she walked out of the kitchen, back to the sitting room, and I was right behind her. She suddenly stopped, turned and faced me. “What Jackson deserved, and deserves right now, is peace. And what we deserve is a break. We can’t afford to chase ghosts now, Emily. You heard your landlord the last time.” I stiffened. “That’s not important right now.” Who was I kidding? I was several months behind on the shop rent. Hattie scoffed. “You know that there's only so much slack that people would cut us. Sooner rather than later, nobody will care anymore. It's only a matter of time. The world would move on. We have to move on too! We are behind on the mortgage. And if you don’t pay the rent on the flower shop by next week—” “I’ll figure it out.” Even as I said it, I had no idea how to save my failing business. For some reason, people didn't buy flowers anymore. She was almost at breaking point. “You’ve been figuring it out for months.” That stung. “You think I don’t know that?” “What I think is that you’re using this,” she gestured to the photograph in my hands, “...this obsession, as a way to not deal with reality; with everything else falling apart.” “Don’t psychoanalyze me.” “Then stop acting like a child!” she shot back, and I flinched. She took a deep breath. “You think you’re some kind of detective now?” I released a shaky breath. “That's not fair.” “No, it's not, Em. It's not fair that I covered our brother's hospital bills, the funeral expenses, and the mortgage alone while your shop bleeds money every month.” I looked away. “I’m trying.” “You’re not!” her voice cracked, and the weight of weeks of exhaustion broke through. “You're not trying hard enough. You sit there in that shop, selling wilted peonies and f*****g roses, pretending things will magically get better while I’m out there working every wedding, every festival, every crappy event in this town just so we don’t drown!” Her words hit harder than expected. It hurt to hear her throw my struggling business in my face. But I understood that she had been the one keeping us afloat, even before Jackson passed. I knew she was exhausted, but I was not going to back down. I scoffed. “Maybe this is what I'm meant to be doing now. Hattie, our brother was murdered. I have to do this.” She folded her arms, shaking her head. “You’re doing it again.” I frowned. “Doing what?” “Our brother is dead, but you’re still acting like you and Jack had this stupid special bond that had no room for someone else," she spat with bitterness. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. Yet deep down, i knew i was itching to say something to make her feel as miserable as I was. So my next words shattered more than the silence in our living room. “Maybe if you stopped being so damn stuck up, acting so high and mighty, correcting everyone, then you wouldn't be feeling left out when you should be worried that our brother was murdered,” I snarled. Hattie blinked taken aback. The look of hurt that flashed across her quickly vanished, replaced by hardness that crept in. She laughed bitterly. “And when would you start start looking in the mirror and telling yourself and everyone else the truth, Em? “What do you mean?”