The sun shone in a crystal-clear blue sky, beating down on the heads of the mourners. Mocking us, Joe Stonehouse thought bitterly, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He closed his eyes because he didn’t know where to focus them. He couldn’t look anywhere without almost losing it. Beside him, his sister Ruth gripped his hand like a lifeline, though she leaned heavily on her husband’s arm, too. Joe just held on to her. His gaze traveled to his niece and his nephew, both on their father’s left. Both openly sobbing, as were Ruth and Al.
After all, they were standing before the coffin of their older daughter. Josephine “Josie” Callahan. Named after Joe. But when push came to shove, her beloved uncle—hotshot United States Secret Service agent that he was—couldn’t save her. How ironic; he’d spent his entire adult life protecting others and he couldn’t keep his own family safe. Of course, he’d been hundreds of miles away when a sixteen-year-old kid pulled out a Glock and gunned down Josie and four other students, then turned the weapon on himself. God, would his sister have to attend those funerals, too?
While birds chirped in the quaint cemetery’s trees, teenagers wept around the grave site. Preppy types cried alongside goths and rabble-rousers. Grief knew no boundaries, and Josie’s friends had come together today to show respect for their popular classmate. He could still hear the excited lilt in his niece’s voice, still see her green eyes, so like his own, sparkle with news. Uncle Joe, I made cheerleading...Uncle Joe, I was voted homecoming queen...Uncle Joe, I got into Stanford, just like you. He’d planned to pay her tuition.
He sucked in a breath, struggling to contain the grief that ticked inside him like a bomb, ready to explode. Though he’d spent his life squelching his feelings, a necessity in his job, today he was losing the battle. His hands shook with the effort.
Concentrate on the mechanics. Say prayers. Hold on to your sister. Place a yellow rose on the casket. Josie loved them, and he sent her one for each year of her age on the birthday they shared. Do not let the emotion out.
Finally, the burial service ended. A tapestry of voices broke the quiet. As they walked to the cars—he and Al had to drag Ruth along—Joe prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that he could do something to ease his family’s grief and his own. As a certified clinical psychologist, who happened to work for the Secret Service, he should be able to do something. Maybe he could use Josie’s death to help others. His niece would have liked that.
One way he might do that had been on his mind for a while now, even before Josie was shot. On the short walk to the cars, that plan crystallized. He glanced at his watch.
“You’re not going anywhere, are you, Joey?” Ruth asked. The tree cast her grayish face in shadows, and she swayed like one of the branches.
He remembered so many times in their childhood and adolescence when she’d begged him, Please, don’t leave me alone. Then, it was to protect her from their parents.
“No, Ruthie. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You were on assignment when...” She couldn’t finish the statement.
He tugged her closer and kissed her hair, emotionally ambushed by his sister’s grief. “I’m here for as long as you need me, honey.”
A bleary-eyed Al, still holding on tight to what was left of his family, threw him a grateful look.
Joe would stay in this sleepy Connecticut town for as long as they needed him. But when he was done, he and his boss at the United States Secret Service were going to have a talk.
He slid into the car after his sister. As he slammed the door, he vowed he’d do something in Josie’s name.
It was a promise he intended to keep.