Free How to Lead a Life of Crime by Kirsten Miller Page B

To the Beaumont Funeral Home—the only mortuary in my hometown that my father would trust with his youngest son’s corpse. It was late when I got there, and the entrance was locked. I started searching for a way inside. I would have broken a window or kicked down the door if a woman hadn’t shown up with a key. I don’t recall her name. I can’t even see her face in my mind. All I remember is the black box she was carrying.
    “You’re the brother, aren’t you?” she asked. “The one who went missing.”
    I must have managed a nod.
    “They said you might come here,” she added. “We’re supposed to call your father if we see you.”
    “Don’t,” I croaked.
    “I wasn’t planning to,” she said kindly. “I made up my mind about that when I saw your brother.”
    “What happened to him?” I asked.
    “They say he fell. Down the stairs in your house.” I could tell she didn’t buy the story.
    “Can I see him?”
    She held up the black box. “They just finished cleaning him up a little while ago. I haven’t started his makeup yet. I don’t think . . .”
    “Please.”
    She sighed for my sake and unlocked the door.
    • • •
    Jude was lying on an embalming table. I could see his freshly washed hair sticking out from beneath the sheet that covered the rest of his body. It was the only time I’d seen my brother so perfectly still. I stood at his side and slid the cloth down to his shoulders. The face I saw wasn’t the one I remembered.
    I thought I recognized my father’s handiwork in Jude’s broken nose and shattered bones. But if my dad’s fists could inflict that kind of damage, he must have been holding back all those times he beat me. I couldn’t figure out why he’d let loose on Jude. And I knew I’d never be able to prove that he had. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Jude’s email, I might have bought into the story that his death was an accident. But I knew. I only had a single small clue, but I knew my brother must have died trying to help me.
    “He used to be handsome,” I said.
    “He looked like you. They gave me a picture,” the woman whispered behind me. I thought she might have been crying. I couldn’t turn around.
    “Would it be okay if I stay here until you’re finished?”
    I heard her take a deep breath. “Sure,” she said on the exhale.
    “My father will have you fired if he finds out.” It was only fair to warn her.
    “That’s okay, honey. Some things are more important than a job.”
    I found a chair and sat with my forehead resting on the edge of the embalming table and one hand on my brother’s cold arm. I honestly thought I might die on that spot. The only thing I’d ever really believed in was Jude. He was my evidence that our father was full of shit. That you could choose to be something other than weak or strong. But it turned out that my father had been right from the start. You’re either one or the other. There are no alternatives—and no space in between. Jude died because he had one fatal flaw. A chink in his armor. A soft spot that he couldn’t keep hidden. Jude was killed because his weakness was me.
    That night was the first time he appeared to me in a dream. He wasn’t the dead sixteen-year-old with the broken face. He was the ten-year-old Peter Pan. Impish. Immortal.
    “Jude, please don’t leave me here,” I begged him.
    “This isn’t goodbye,” he insisted. “You know that place between sleep and awake? The place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll be waiting.”
    “That’s not f—ing good enough!” I shouted, almost choking on snot and tears.
    “It’s not good, but it’s enough,” he said. “You’ll see. Did you get my gift?”
    “Gift?”
    He wiggled his fingers at me. “Use them wisely, and you’ll have everything that you need.”
    The makeup lady shook me. “It’s morning,” she said. “You need to leave before my boss gets in.”
    “Did you fix him?” I asked. “Jude has to look