Chapter Seven: The Funeral
Fabiola's POV - Age 13
The funeral was closed casket.
I stood with my mother at the back of the church, watching as people filed past the glossy black coffin. White lilies covered it, their sickly-sweet scent making her stomach turn.
Lucas was in there. Lucas, who'd been so alive just a week ago.
Now he was cold. Silent. Gone.
"We shouldn't have come," Rosa whispered. "This isn't our place."
But I had insisted. I needed to see Evan. Needed to know he was okay, even though I knew he wasn't. Knew he'd never be okay again.
The church was packed. The Harlows were important people old money, old name, old influence. Everyone who mattered in their small town was there, dressed in black, murmuring condolences.
But l only had eyes for one person.
Evan sat in the front pew between his parents. He wore a black suit that was too big for his thin frame, his black hair combed back severely, revealing the sharp angles of his face. He sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, staring at the coffin.
He looked like a statue. Like something carved from ice.
Beautiful and terrible and broken.
My chest ached.
"I want to talk to him," I whispered.
"No." Rosa's grip tightened on my arm. "Leave that family alone. This is their grief."
"But Mama.."
"No, Fabiola."
The service began. A priest talked about Lucas his brightness, his joy, his promise. "Taken too soon," he said. "A tragedy beyond understanding."
I watched Evan's face. It didn't change. Didn't flicker. He just stared at that coffin like if he looked hard enough, Lucas might sit up and laugh and say it was all a joke.
But Lucas didn't move.
And neither did Evan.
Until Margaret Harlow stood to give a eulogy.
She was a pillar of ice in her black dress, her face composed, her voice steady. She talked about Lucas like he was a stranger,his accomplishments, his potential, his place in the family legacy.
She didn't cry.
Didn't break.
Didn't mention Evan at all.
I saw Evan's hands curl into fists. Saw his jaw clench. Saw the tiniest tremor run through him.
And then Margaret said something that made the whole church go silent.
"Lucas was our light. Our future. And now that light has been extinguished." She paused, and her gray eyes so like her sons' drifted to Evan. "We must carry on. We must be strong. We must not let this tragedy define us."
The words were meant to be comforting.
But I heard what wasn't said. Lucas was the one who mattered. You're just what's left.
Evan stood abruptly.
The sound of the pew scraping echoed through the church. Everyone turned to stare.
Evan walked down the aisle without a word. Without looking at anyone. His face was blank, but I saw his hands shaking.
"Evan!" Richard Harlow's voice cracked like a whip. "Sit down."
Evan kept walking.
Margaret's face flushed with fury, but she continued her eulogy as if nothing had happened.
I watched Evan disappear through the church doors. I counted to ten.
Then pulled away from my mother and followed.
I found him behind the church, leaning against the stone wall, gasping for air like he was drowning on dry land.
"Evan..."
He spun around, and the look on his face stopped her cold. His eyes were wild, desperate, haunted.
"Go away," he choked out.
"No."
"Fabiola, please..."
"You can't breathe." She stepped closer, gentle, like approaching a wounded animal. "You're having a panic attack. My dad gets them sometimes. You need to slow down..."
"I can't." Evan's voice cracked. "I can't breathe because he's here. He's in that box and he's here and I can feel him and..." He pressed both hands to his chest. "He won't leave. He won't leave."
Fabiola's blood went cold. "What do you mean?"
"Lucas." Evan's eyes were streaming now, tears and snot and raw grief. "He's still here. I can feel him. In the church. In the house. In me." He laughed, wild and broken. "They put him in a box but he didn't go. He's still here and he's so angry..."
"Evan, you're not making sense..."
"I KILLED HIM!" The words tore out of him. "I let him drown! I stood there and I watched and I didn't jump and now he's dead and it's my fault and he knows, Fabiola, he knows and he won't forgive me..."
I grabbed his face, forced him to look at her. "Stop It You didn't kill him, It was an accident. You were scared..."
"I chose." Evan's voice dropped to a whisper. "When he went under, I had a choice. Save him or save myself. And I chose me." His face crumpled. "What kind of person does that? What kind of brother..."
"A living one." Fabiola's voice was fierce. "You're alive, Evan. And that's not a sin. That's not wrong. You wanted to live and that's human."
"But the pact..." He stopped himself, pressed his lips together hard.
"What pact?"
He shook his head, pulled away from her. "Nothing. Forget it. You shouldn't be here. You should stay far away from me because everything I touch dies..."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not!" My voice rose. "And I'm not leaving you alone. Not today. Not ever. So you can push me away all you want, Evan Harlow, but I'm staying."
Evan stared at her. And for a moment, she saw something break in him. Something that had been holding him together by sheer force of will.
He collapsed.
Not physically he didn't fall. But something inside him crumbled, and suddenly he was sobbing, great heaving sobs that shook his whole body.
I caught him. Wrapped my arms around him and held on tight.
He was so cold. So thin. Like he was disappearing.
"I miss him," Evan gasped into her shoulder. "I miss him so much and I hate him and I love him and I don't know how to live without him..."
"I know. I know."
"He was half of me. And now I'm just... just..."
"You're Evan," Fabiola said firmly. "You're you. And that's enough."
He clung to me like I was the only solid thing in the world.
And I held him and thought.My mother was right. This boy is going to break my heart.
But I held him anyway.
Because someone had to.
When they finally pulled apart, Evan's eyes were red-rimmed, his face blotchy. He looked young. Vulnerable.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"You don't have to thank me."
He touched her cheek, gentle, wondering. Then he leaned in and scented her breathed deep, his nose against her neck, drawing in her warmth like it was medicine.
"You smell like life," he murmured. "Like everything good I don't deserve."
My heart hammered. "Evan..."
Footsteps. Sharp heels on pavement.
They jumped apart.
Margaret Harlow stood at the corner of the church, her face a mask of cold fury.
"Get away from my son," she said to me.
"Mrs. Harlow—"
"Now."
I looked at Evan. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Go," he whispered. "Please."
I wanted to fight. Wanted to stay.
But the look on his face resigned, defeated, empty made me turn and walk away.
When I looked back, Margaret had Evan by the arm, dragging him back toward the church.
And little did I know, in the window of the church, just for a second, a boy.
Black hair. Gray eyes. Pale skin.
Watching me.
Grieving.
Cold.
Hungry.
Waiting.