Free Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) by Christine Kling

the walk, opened the front door, and disappeared inside. He’d left the front door standing open, and from inside I could hear faint strains of Norah Jones’s voice coming from the stereo. I recognized the song “I Don’t Know Why.”
    I looked at B. J. “Think we ought to go in?”
    “Yeah, just to make sure his mom’s there and the kid’s safe. And to close the front door, anyway.”
    “She’s there. You could go close the door.”
    “Sey, what’s the matter with you?”
    “B. J., I don’t have time to tell you the whole story right now, but Molly and I used to be friends. Best friends. And then it ended.”
    “So, that was then and this is now. Now we need to get in there and make sure the two of them are okay. It’s about basic human decency, Seychelle. It’s what we’re going to do.”
    It was only when we got to the front door that we saw the light from the single candle burning on the coffee table. Molly was wrapped up in an old hand-crocheted afghan, sitting upright on the couch, staring at the flame. She looked up at us when we entered, her face expressionless.
    “Oh, Sey,” she said, “come in. Thanks, you know,” she said, nodding toward the back hall. She spoke in an odd monotone.
    “Hey, no big deal. Molly, this is my friend, B. J. Moana. B. J., Molly Pontus.”
    Molly scooted over and patted the couch next to her. B. J. obliged and sat down. I’d been hoping we wouldn’t stay long, so I remained standing, edging a little closer to the door each time I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.
    “So how was he today?”
    She had directed the question to B. J.
    “About as good as you could expect for a kid going through this, but he had some tough moments. He’s feeling typical survivor’s guilt.”
    “Ha!” she said, but it wasn’t a laugh. “Tell me about it.”  
    “It’s a normal part of the grieving process—as is the crying,” B.J. said. “He needs to cry, and you shouldn’t discourage him from it. On the other hand, he also needs to laugh, and he shouldn’t feel guilty when he does.”
    “You seem to know what you’re talking about.”
    B. J. shrugged. “I read a lot.”
    I wanted to tell her that she was sitting next to a walking library, that he had two college degrees in fancy stuff like Asian and Classical Studies, whatever the hell that was, but I kept quiet. I felt like I was on the outside again. Like way back with Molly and Pit. The two of them were already talking as if they were old friends. B. J. had that effect on people. They warmed to him instantly and often told him things they wouldn’t tell their own families.
    “It’s so hard to know what you’re supposed to do with yourself at a time like this,” Molly said. “Someone you love is dead, and it’s still true whether you ride in a car or sit on a couch. Nothing you do can make that fact go away.” She hiked the afghan up around her shoulders and sighed. “This has been the longest day. Jeannie took me to the police station and they took my statement. That was pretty simple—we were back here by two, but I didn’t know what to do then. I’ve just been sitting here, watching as it got dark. I lit the candle when I got cold.”
    “Have you eaten anything?” B. J. asked.
    “I’m not hungry,” Molly answered, shaking her head.
    B. J. slapped his hands on his thighs. “That’s it. You’ve got to eat. Do you mind if I make myself at home in your kitchen?”
    She shook her head. “Feel free,” she said.
    After B. J. left the room, I stood there for a while, my hands snuggled deep into the pockets of my sweatshirt. It was clear I wasn’t going to get him to make this a short visit. The silence in the room was like a black hole, sucking all my energy into it. It’s hard to come up with small talk when you haven’t spoken to someone for over thirteen years. I leaned against the wall in that darkened living room, trying to get up the nerve to talk to Molly, to make it like it was in