The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (read this if txt) 📕

woman’s family held hands as the girl’s mother quivered in agony at the centre of the group. Next to them, Dr Thorpe was packing away his bag after administering a sedative to the mother.

“How could a man wake up every day with so much anger in his heart that this is normal to him?” Holden mused.

Eileen shook her head distractedly, her eyes glued to the family. She leaned close to Holden and whispered, “Did you notice the young guy with them?”

“What about him?”

“Is he wearing pyjamas?”

“It’s hard to tell since it’s so dark, but they look like hospital scrubs to me.”

“Didn’t you say that you thought the killer had medical expertise because he kept hitting the jugular all the time?”

Covertly, Holden raised his eyes to look at the young man again. He was close to the family yet distinctly apart from them. Instead of commiserating with relatives, his gaze was focused on the scene, watching with interest as investigators took photos and wrapped the young woman’s body for transportation.

“Are you sure he’s with them?” Holden’s question was tinged with doubt.

“Yes. When we first got here, I saw the girl’s mother talking to him.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough what’s going on. Look.”

The commissioner had ducked under the yellow tape, his face grim as he braced himself to offer the police force’s sympathies and update the family, before beckoning to Holden and Eileen.

“This is Holden Davis, owner of the funeral home that will safely transport your loved one to the coroner,” Derricks said with practised fluidity. Knowing Derricks as he did, Holden suspected that he had crafted and memorized a multitude of mini speeches which he could rattle off to journalists and grieving families at will. Derricks was nothing if not practical.

Holden reached forward and shook the matriarch’s hand. He ignored the wetness of the damp handkerchief clutched in her palm.

“He said you do funerals too. We ain’t got much, but how much is it gonna cost for you to — to…”

The end of the sentence dangled in the air. It always did. No parent wanted to say “bury my child”.

The tears were still streaming down her face, but her eyes looked glassy and numb. The sedatives had begun to kick in. Holden knew she needed to rest. He patted her shoulder and said, “I can visit you tomorrow to show you some options." Donna's mother simply stared until one of the relatives — a sister perhaps, based on their resemblance — guided her to a small hatchback to rest and compose herself.

Just then, the hum of a heavy engine and two square beams of light broke through the night as Paul’s Camaro travelled slowly across the rutted earth. Out of the corner of his eye, Holden noticed Eileen’s mouth tighten. They had only left the party three hours earlier; Eileen's disgust for his brother was still fresh.

Paul was dressed as though on his way to an eighteenth-century cotillion, clad in a top hat and coattails that fluttered behind him as he walked. He tipped his hat to the policemen and said, “Good evening, folks. To the bereaved, I’m very sorry for your loss.” He cast a dark look at his brother and added, “I’m the co-owner of Davis and Sons.” Holden didn’t miss the emphasis Paul placed on the last word, but he also knew that he didn't have the patience or time for a public argument. Holden excused himself and steered Paul back to his car.

“What are you doing here?” Holden asked through gritted teeth.

“You know full well I’m supposed to get half of the bodies. But you and your little floozy have been swooping in and taking almost all for the past few months,” Paul fumed as he shook Holden’s hands off his shoulders.

“Half of the government collections — which I might add, you don’t even want in the first place since you always tell them to call me. It’s up to you to organize your own funerals.”

“Since when do you dictate what my half of the business gets to do? From now on I want half of the collections or I’m calling my lawyer.”

Holden cocked a haughty eyebrow. “You’re only hot and sweaty about these collections because the hospital served you a cease-and-desist,” Holden said, his voice carrying a dangerously cool undertone.

Paul bristled. Holden had struck a nerve. For years Paul had paid touters to stand outside the A&E to solicit funerals, a practice which Holden was firmly against. One touter had followed the mother to recently drowned child to her car and offered to go home with her, saying grief was nothing a little sex couldn’t cure.

Her husband, a big-shot lawyer, claimed severe emotional distress and sued Paul. Not only was Paul’s most lucrative income generator gone, but he also had a looming lawsuit that could wipe him out. Much to Holden’s dismay, Davis and Sons had been listed as the plaintiff.

Jaw clenched, Paul’s words came out as mere whispers between his teeth. “I own fifty per cent.”

“Then do fifty per cent of the bloody work,” retorted Holden. “Start by paying the massive loan for the fancy building you occupy or cutting back on the huge staff you have. Maybe pull your balls out of your back pocket and do an embalming or two. Then you could do something other than dressing like a ringmaster to drive a carriage.”

If Paul’s skin were any lighter, Holden would have seen the blood drain from his face. But knowing his brother as he did, Holden also knew that Paul would rather pursue an irrational argument than listen to reason.

Paul was livid. “You know…at some point, that stick up your ass is going to rupture your spleen. But long before then, I’ll have made you pay for this.”

He stalked to his car and revved the engine. The wheels spun and a shower of muddy splatters rained on Holden’s pants as Paul shifted the gears and sped off.

“That was unnecessary,” came Eileen’s voice from behind Holden. She pulled a cleaning