Chapter 76 Today will be hard
Rowan
I keep telling myself this is logistics.
I keep telling myself this is what I do. I solve problems. I move resources. I make phone calls that change outcomes.
But Violet is on my couch with a legal pad on her knee, tears sliding down her face like they do not have permission to exist, and the lie tastes like metal.
She has the funeral home on speaker.
Her pen moves fast, hard, like if she presses deep enough she can carve order into chaos.
“Yes,” she says, voice steady. Too steady. “Friday morning works.”
She writes the date and underlines it twice.
The funeral director says something about separate services, separate processing, separate facilities.
Violet’s jaw locks.
“No,” she says, calm as a blade. “One service. Joint. They were immediate family.”
She glances up at me.
Just a flick. A check. A tether.
I do not say a word. I only give her a small nod, slow, deliberate. I want her to feel it. I want her to know I am here and I am watching and nothing touches her without going through me first.
Her eyes drop back to the page.
“Two plots,” she continues. “Sunnyfields. Side by side.”
The funeral director asks about casket options. Upsells. Satin liners. Brass handles. The usual carnival.
Violet does not flinch.
“Simple,” she says. “Dark wood. No embellishments.”
She swipes at her cheek with the back of her hand like the tears offended her. Like crying is a scheduling error.
I hate it.
I hate that she thinks she has to be steel to survive.
I hate that the world keeps proving her right.
“Closed casket,” she adds, quieter. “No viewing.”
She pauses. Listens.
Her fingers tighten on the pen until her knuckles pale. She writes again.
“Flowers,” Violet says. “White lilies. Baby’s breath. No roses.”
She doesn’t explain why. She doesn’t need to. I file it away anyway, like I file away every detail about her. I do not forget things that matter to me.
“And no officiant,” Violet says. “Music only. Short service.”
She exhales through her nose, then adds, “Under fifty chairs.”
Her voice barely dips, but it dips.
“I don’t expect a large turnout.”
The words are neutral. Her body is not.
I move before I think.
Not toward her. Not to touch. Just to stand, to remind the room that she is not alone with this phone call. I brace a hand on the edge of my desk and watch her like she is the only real thing left in my life.
She looks up again.
This time she holds my gaze an extra beat.
Then she turns back to the call.
“Catering can be minimal,” she says. “Coffee, tea, water. Pastries.”
The funeral director asks about payment.
“Email the itemized invoice and the contract,” Violet says. “I will authorize today.”
She writes PAYMENT in capital letters and underlines it until the pen almost tears the paper.
The call ends.
For a moment, she just sits there with the phone in her hand, staring at the counter like she expects it to move under her feet.
I can see the second she tries to push everything back down. The way she pulls her shoulders into place and puts her grief in a box like she has done it a thousand times.
I speak before she can make the next call.
“You handled that well.”
She lets out a thin breath that almost resembles a laugh. Almost.
“I don’t feel like I did.”
“You did,” I say again, because I mean it. “You were clear. You were in control.”
She looks at me like she wants to argue and does not have the energy.
“I hate that I have to decide all of this,” she says, voice low. “It feels like picking pieces of them.”
“You’re protecting them,” I reply. “There’s a difference.”
Her throat moves. She blinks hard. Then she looks away fast, like if she holds my gaze too long she will break in front of me.
Devin’s voice cuts in from the chair near the window.
“That was Internal Affairs.”
Violet turns sharply. So do I.
Devin clears his throat. “They want us to come down to the station.”
Violet scoffs. “Today?”
“Yes,” Devin says. “They said sometime this afternoon. Their words, not mine.”
I hear the edge under his calm. He doesn’t like it any more than I do.
I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled. “Of course they do.”
Violet tilts her head slightly, considering. Not panicking. Not spiraling. Just… recalculating.
“That’s fine,” she says after a moment.
Devin blinks. “It is?”
“Yes,” Violet replies, nodding to herself. “I have to go out anyway.”
My gaze sharpens. “You do.”
She looks at me directly now. No apology. No hesitation. “I need to go to Sunnyfields today. They want me to finalize the plots in person.”
She flips the page on her pad, revealing neat bullet points.
“Two adjacent plots. East side, near the trees if possible. I also need to review the headstone options in person,” she continues, voice steady even as her eyes shine. “They emailed examples, but I want to see the granite finishes myself. And I need to drop off the payment. They won’t process engraving without it.”
Devin glances at me. I already know what he’s thinking.
Violet keeps going.
“And I still have to send them the inscriptions,” she adds. “They asked for wording by end of day.”
My jaw tightens, not at her, but at the weight she’s carrying like it’s just another task list.
“You’re planning to do all of that today,” I say.
“Yes,” she answers simply. “If I don’t, it’ll just stack up. And I don’t want to sit still.”
I study her face. The faint tremor she’s hiding. The way she’s forcing momentum because stopping would mean feeling everything.
Devin shifts. “Internal Affairs said they’d like you both present. You and Rowan.”
Violet’s eyes flick to me again.
“I figured,” she says quietly. “That’s okay.”
“You’re not going alone,” I continue. “Not to the station. Not to Sunnyfields.”
“I didn’t think I would,” she says. “I assumed—”
“That assumption is correct,” I cut in.
Something softens in her expression, just a fraction.
Devin checks his tablet. “They specifically asked about Detective Calder’s actions in the building. Timeline. Contact. Use of force.”
Violet’s fingers curl around the pen again.
“I can tell them exactly what happened,” she says. “Every word. Every second.”
“I know you can,” I reply. “You won’t be doing it unprepared.”
Her lips press together. “I’m not scared of them.”
“I am,” I say calmly.
That gets her attention.
Not fear. Not weakness. Strategy.
“I’m scared of incompetence,” I continue. “And of men who think procedure protects them.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
Devin exhales. “So the plan is Sunnyfields first, then the station?”
“No,” Violet says before I can answer. “I’d rather handle my family last.”
I don’t argue.
“I’ll have the driver ready,” Devin adds. “And security.”
“Good,” I say.