Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Seconds later, I hear, “Ben?”
“Mom?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“Hold on, I’m putting you on video call.”
In the background, Audrey wails, “Wait! Please don’t show him!”
“I’m just talking to him,” she assures.
Emerging on the video, my mom pushes glossy brown hair off her shoulder. Her collarbones are strict, lips pursed, and eyes flamed. Her black silk robe contrasts the glittering strand of diamonds at her neck. She is the antithesis of soft, maternal warmth. She is cold, sharp battlement. And I’ve rarely, in all my life, wanted or needed for anything else, not from her.
Her hugs might be steel, but they’ve always been loving.
It’s a comfort when she appears. I take a breath. “Is he okay?” I ask.
“We don’t know.” Her tone is icy. My mom frames the screen so I can only see her face. Likewise, she only sees mine. Based on her iron-willed expression—like she’s ready to murder my sorrow, so even sadness can’t hurt me—I know he’s dead.
I know he’s gone.
I internally nod to myself, trying to accept this without buckling. Trying. It’s easier to just focus on my little sister. I want her to be okay.
In the background, I hear my dad tell Audrey, “He’s not breathing.”
“Give him CPR,” she insists.
“Rigor mortis is setting in, Audrey. He’s been dead for too long.”
“There must be something we can do,” she cries.
“Outside of pretending he’s alive, there is nothing.”
“Richard,” Mom glares over at him.
“Rose,” Dad replies with less heat, a smile almost inside his voice. “It’s the cycle of life. They know the dead can’t be resurrected. And this isn’t the first pet that’s passed.”
My mom accidentally rotates the phone, and I see Audrey on the floor of her room. Her head buried in her black satin pajamas. My dad is on the chaise at the foot of her four-poster bed, and he rubs her back in soothing circles.
“He had so many more years, though,” Audrey sobs. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. “I don’t blame you.” I really don’t. I only blame myself. This is on me. She shouldn’t have had to take care of him, and I should’ve accounted for this possibility. It was always there.
“We can take him to the vet tomorrow morning,” my mom says to me, her face filling the screen again. “We’ll get a necropsy to learn the cause of death.”
“No,” I say fast. “No, I don’t want that.” I’m most likely in the minority of my family, not wishing for knowledge. Answers. But I believe there’s more peace in not knowing. Especially for Audrey. If he really died from an apple seed she accidentally fed him, it’d wreck her.
“We’ll bury him,” Mom assures me. “It’ll be a proper burial too. A ceremony under your favorite oak tree. May his feathery little ass rest in bird heaven.”
“Mother,” Audrey cries. “It’s been mere minutes. Can we not joke?”
“I was being serious,” she says sharply, but I sense her studying my reaction, wondering if she upset me.
I’m fine. My chest hurts and my throat is scorched, but I’m fine.
“Ben?” Dad asks.
“I’m fine,” I mention out loud.
“You’ll come back for the burial?” he asks off-screen.
My mom’s eyes ping over to him, then back to me. “You’re coming.” It’s a demand, but she won’t force me there if I can’t make it.
“Yeah, I’ll try.” My voice goes soft. “Just make sure Audrey’s okay. I don’t want her to take this too hard.”
Her lips flatline, and bottomless pools of concern fill her eyes. She struts out of the bedroom, taking the phone on her march to a home office downstairs. For privacy, probably. Once she’s sitting pin straight at a mahogany desk, she says, “We’re all more concerned about your feelings. Audrey cares about the bird, but she cares about you more.”
I nod a couple times, my jaw locking.
“Ben.” The aggressive way she says my name—the way her fierce yellow-green eyes drill into me—I wonder if she’s worried about something else.
“What?” I ask.
She blinks and shakes her head like she’s shooing a thought away. “I just…it’s not like you to not even cry over Theodore. He was yours for years.”
“I did cry before you got on the phone.” Barely. Definitely not typical, and I think she can tell it couldn’t have been a lot. So I add, “You rarely cry over anything.”
“You’re not an ice-cold bitch. You’re my sweet-natured, fearless son—”
“I’m just in shock,” I say fast. “Believe me, the waterworks are going to come during the burial.” I haven’t changed, Mom.
She pushes more hair off her shoulder. “You’ve been happy out there with your brothers?” she asks. “Because if you need me or your dad, you can come home.”
“No, I want to stay. It hasn’t been terrible in New York. I eat breakfast with Beckett every morning, and I’m out with all of them now. We’re at an escape room together.”