His Brother's Keeper

She lifted her tear-streaked face. “Why did she come here? What is she doing in Phoenix?”

“It’s the anniversary, Mom.” He wasn’t about to mention that she had a job at Discovery, that he was working with her. “But forget about her. We’re here to honor Robert.”

Giorgio put the vase of flowers on one side of the headstone. “Perfect.” he said. “Look, Mary, at how perfect.”

“I’ll put the picture in.” Shanna took Robert’s photo from their mother’s hands and put it in the frame, while Trina placed the teddy bear.

“Take a look, Mom,” Gabe said, but she was too lost in grief to do more than glance at the mementos. Rain flicked Gabe’s cheek and the breeze picked up. “The rain’s coming. We should go.”

“I never wanted to see her again,” his mother said.

“You won’t have to,” Giorgio said, helping her to her feet.

Gabe, on the other hand, would see her the next day. What the hell would he say to her?

GABE©FOUND FELICITY’S©NOTE when he got to the gym the next afternoon:

Words cannot express how sorry I am that I upset you and your family. I doubt anything I say will ease your anger toward me, but I hope we can maintain a civil, professional relationship here at school.

Sincerely,

Felicity Spencer

He was glad he didn’t have to talk to her. He couldn’t stop seeing his mother sobbing on her knees, like all those terrible weeks when Gabe had been helpless to soothe her bottomless grief.

It was nine at night now and he was driving cab in the pouring rain. No picnic, considering how Arizona drivers behaved. Used to dry roads and sunny skies, they acted as if the apocalypse was upon them—tailgating, speeding, weaving lanes or testing their brakes with quick slams.

Fridays were usually big cab nights, but not when it rained, so Gabe was about to call it quits when dispatch called in a pickup at IKEA. He was nearby, so he took it, wipers clacking in time to the Latin hip-hop he had on his iPod.

He shared the lease on the late-model Rav4 with his friend Mickey Donaldson, but he was the one who kept it polished, peaceful and sweet-smelling. He liked things squared away.

He liked the rain, too, despite the annoyance, because of how clean and crisp the world looked afterward and how great the desert smelled.

The rain made the blue-and-yellow IKEA colors glow brilliantly against the cloud-darkened sky. He pulled to the curb. The entrance was so crowded with carts and people loading goods into vehicles that he didn’t immediately notice the woman who approached his passenger window.

He lowered it and saw Felicity.

“Gabe? Oh.” She jerked away, as if the door was electrified. She had several plastic Target sacks in both hands and a loaded IKEA cart behind her. “I had no idea. I’ll get another cab.”

“Not in this weather, you won’t,” he said, climbing out. He couldn’t leave her stranded. Together they loaded her stuff into the cargo area—boxes of unassembled furniture, bags of pillows and kitchen goods. The Target bags were mostly groceries.

In the cab, Felicity pushed her wet hair from her face. “Thanks. I bought too much to carry home on the bus. I got my security-deposit check from my old apartment, so I went crazy. My place looks too much like a Motel 6 room.” She shot him a glance, then stared straight out. “I thought you had a job doing landscaping.”

“I do. Whatever puts groceries on the table. No car?”

“Saving up for one.”

She was broke? Living in a rinky-dink place? That surprised him, considering how well she dressed. Her family had money.

“So where to?”

She gave him an address not far from the school. After that, a heavy silence descended, broken only by his music and the rhythmic thump of the wipers. Stupid, with such a long drive ahead of them, so he said, “I got your note,” in a neutral voice.

She didn’t respond. After a few seconds, he glanced at her and was startled to see tears running down her cheeks. He jerked his gaze forward, not wanting to embarrass her.

When she spoke, her voice quavered. “I would never have… If I’d known… I really regret that I—” She stopped and he could tell she didn’t want him to know she was crying. She’d hidden her tears the day she’d crashed the car, too.

“Forget it. It’s over,” he said, wanting to be done with it.

“But your mom… She was so upset.”

“She survived.” He paused. “Giorgio’s good with her.”

“Really?” She sounded so relieved he felt a pang of sympathy. She blew out a breath and brushed at her face. “Wow. That rain’s really falling.” She was pretending it was rain that streaked her cheeks.

“It is.” He felt another pinch of emotion.

“I always loved when it rained here,” she said softly.

“Me, too.”

“Yeah?” She shifted in her seat to look at him.

“Sure. Especially the summer storms.”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s so magical with the sky brown and yellow and ominous, lightning zipping everywhere, rain in sheets, palm trees rioting and that great wet-desert smell.”

“Yeah. All that.”

She faced forward again. “It’s unusual in March. I’m glad for the change. March is…hard.” He heard her swallow. Did she associate spring with Robert’s death the way he did?

He steeled himself against feeling sorry for her. If she’d been so damned devastated, why hadn’t she written Robert in juvie? Or given him a number to call? She was just trying to make herself feel better about what she’d done.

“At the funeral, you were so angry at me, I was afraid to go to the graveside,” she said quietly. “That’s why I went last night. To say goodbye.”

Why the hell wouldn’t she shut up about this? He remembered her at the funeral—small and pale and scared.

She looked young now, and vulnerable, sitting low in the seat, her wet hair clinging to her face, plastered to her skull. Her candy smell filled his cab as it had her car the day he’d fixed it for her. He remembered how he’d felt that day, that tug inside that told him, Keep an eye on this one.

She raised her arm to push away her hair and he saw she had on a candy bracelet. Really? After all these years? That explained the aroma.

He saw they’d reached her building, so he parked, got out and started unloading her stuff, planning to help her carry it up.

She met him at the back of the car, looking troubled. “Do you think it helped your mother to yell at me? Was it cathartic? I know this has been terrible for her. They say it’s the worst thing, to lose a child.”

“She’s okay. Let’s get this stuff inside.” He lifted out a box that held a flat-packed table.

“What she said about me abandoning Robert…” Her teeth were chattering, but not from the rain, which was warm. “She was right. I did that. I tried to write, but the words were all wrong. I was ashamed and afraid he hated me because I got off. I know I was a coward.”