Chapter 27 Next of Kin
Violet
It’s just before lunch when my phone rings.
Blocked number.
I stare at it for a second longer than usual, thumb hovering over the screen. Normally I’d let it go to voicemail. Blocked numbers are almost always trouble. Politicians. Reporters. Someone who doesn’t want a record.
But something twists low in my stomach.
I answer.
“This is Violet Pierce.”
There’s a pause on the other end. A breath. Measured. Professional.
“Ms. Pierce,” a man says, voice calm in a way that feels practiced. “I’m calling from the county morgue.”
The words don’t land right away.
They float. Hang in the air between us.
“I’m calling in regard to your brother, Drew Pierce,” he continues. “We need you to come down as soon as possible to collect his personal effects and discuss funeral arrangements.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“I’m at work,” I say automatically. “I— I’ll try to get there as soon as I can, but I can’t guarantee—”
“That’s fine,” he says gently. Too gently. “We understand. Please come when you’re able.”
When the call ends, I don’t move.
The office keeps going around me. Phones ringing. Keyboards clicking. Someone laughing too loudly near the elevators.
My screen blurs.
I blink hard and look up just as Camille swivels in her chair across from me, already watching.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, low.
I swallow. “The morgue.”
Her face changes instantly. No questions. No hesitation.
“You need to go,” she says.
“I can’t just—” I stop myself. My voice is tight. “I can’t miss work.”
Camille stands, walks around her desk, and plants her hands on mine where they’re clenched on the edge of the counter.
“Violet,” she says carefully, “this is not something you put on hold.”
I shake my head. “I just got promoted. Everything’s already—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts in. “This is your brother.”
The word brother hits harder now than it has all morning.
She exhales slowly. “You’re going to Rowan. Right now.”
My stomach flips.
The idea of missing work—of leaving my post—feels wrong in a way I can’t explain. Like stepping out of line when the line is the only thing holding me upright.
“I don’t think—”
“Violet,” Camille says, firmer now. “This is not optional.”
I look past her, down the corridor toward Rowan’s office.
Against every instinct I have—
I nod.
I step away from the desk and walk down the hall, my heels sounding too loud against the floor. Rowan’s door is slightly ajar.
Inside, his voice is sharp.
“Don’t test me,” he snaps into the phone. “You want to play politics, do it without dragging my name into it—”
Silence.
Then, quieter but no less lethal: “We’re done.”
He hangs up and looks up just as I knock.
“Pierce,” he says. “Come in.”
I step inside and close the door behind me.
He studies me for half a second, then sighs. “Apologies for the language.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t sit.
“The morgue called,” I say. The words feel unreal coming out of my mouth. “They need me to come down to collect my brother’s things. And to… arrange the funeral.”
Rowan doesn’t speak right away.
He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a point just past my shoulder.
“How soon?” he asks.
“As soon as possible,” I say. “I told them I’d try, but I can’t guarantee—”
“Go,” he says.
The word is immediate. Final.
I blink. “What?”
“You’re going,” he repeats. “Now.”
I hesitate. “The office—”
“Will function,” he cuts in. “It did before you were hired. It will do so for a few hours.”
I swallow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And—” I glance toward the door. “Camille?”
“Bring her,” Rowan says without hesitation. “You shouldn’t go alone.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“I don’t want this to cause problems,” I say quietly.
Rowan’s gaze sharpens. “This,” he says, gesturing between us, “is not a problem. This is life.”
I nod once.
“Take the rest of the afternoon,” he adds. “I don’t expect you back.”
The words feel unreal. Unallowed.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Rowan pauses, then adds, “Text me when you’re done.”
I don’t ask why.
I just nod again.
When I step back into the lobby, Camille is already standing, bag over her shoulder, keys in hand.
“You good?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good,” she says. “Let’s go.”
As we head toward the elevators, I glance back once.
Rowan is already on another call, voice controlled, posture steady—holding the building together the way I usually do.
The car door shuts with a dull thud, sealing us inside.
Camille pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic without turning on the radio. The city hums around us—engines, horns, life continuing like nothing has changed.
I stare out the window for a moment before the question slips out of me.
“Do you think I should tell my mother?”
Camille doesn’t answer right away.
She keeps her eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel. I can almost see her weighing it—choosing truth over comfort, even when comfort would be easier.
Finally, she says, “No.”
I turn toward her. “No?”
She glances at me briefly, then back to the road. “With three strokes already? Violet… this kind of shock could trigger another one. And the next one might not be something she comes back from.”
The words hit hard.
Fourth.
Final.
My throat tightens, but I don’t argue. I don’t ask follow-up questions. I don’t try to justify it or rationalize it away.
I know she’s right.
I sink back into the seat and turn my face toward the window again.
The city blurs past—storefronts, pedestrians, crosswalks filled with strangers who have no idea my brother is lying in a cold room waiting for me to claim what’s left of him.
I don’t speak again.
Camille doesn’t push.
The rest of the drive passes in thick, suffocating silence.
Because that thought—the idea that telling the truth might kill my mother—
is the last thing I can afford to carry right now.