Aftermath by Tracy Brown

didn’t believe what he was telling her, but then how could he possibly make up such madness? “Frankie, what are you telling me? Misa shot Steven … for what? Why would she just go over there and kill him?”
    Frankie stared at the floor. His mind was reeling. After leaving his home, he had ridden in Tremaine’s car to the morgue and signed the forms necessary to perform the autopsy. It all felt like a bad dream to him. Like he was trapped in his worst nightmare but couldn’t wake up no matter how hard he tried. Steven, the little brother he had nurtured, attempted to mentor, and protected, was dead. Frankie knew that their mother, whom he hadn’t spoken to in at least two years, would be devastated. This might be the thing it took to finally kill her.
    Gillian stroked Frankie’s head and spoke softly. “Why did she do it?” Gillian had to know.
    He looked at her, silent for a while.
    â€œShe thinks he was molesting her son.”
    Gillian’s expression changed and she stopped stroking Frankie’s head. She frowned slightly and touched her diamond necklace absentmindedly. Frankie took note. He expected that everyone would respond that way, questioning the possibility that Steven was a pedophile. Frankie had seen the local newspaper reporters assembling at his home in the wee hours as word spread of a bloody crime scene in his upper-crust neighborhood. He had heard what Misa said, seen her conviction. He knew that his dead brother would be judged publicly without ever having the chance to defend himself.
    â€œOh my God,” Gillian managed.
    Frankie cleared his throat again. “She sat there and looked me in my face…” He didn’t complete the thought, but it was obvious that Frankie was struggling with what had happened.
    Gillian had one eyebrow raised. Gently, and in her most angelic voice, she prodded. “Steven couldn’t be capable of something like that … could he?”
    Frankie didn’t move. He didn’t respond. He simply stared off into space as if he were mesmerized by some long-ago thought.
    Gillian didn’t nudge any further out of respect for the fact that he had just lost his brother. But she began thinking about Steven—about all the times she had interacted with him over the years, trying to assess if she had missed any warning signs that he could be a pervert.
    â€œNah…” Frankie said at last. “I mean…”
    Silence lingered between them for so long that Gillian got up and poured herself some of the coffee she’d made earlier. She made some tea for Frankie, since she’d been around him long enough to know that he hated coffee. When she returned to the living room, Frankie was holding his head in his hands. Meanwhile, Tremaine and the goons came in and told Frankie that they were going to leave. Gillian noticed that Tremaine’s demeanor seemed just as downtrodden as Frankie’s. After all, Tremaine had witnessed the carnage up close and personal. He had seen Steven’s bullet-riddled body, watched his friend come to terms with the loss of his brother and what he was accused of. The two friends shared a strong handshake embrace and when they were all gone, Frankie sank back down on the couch, and again the silence came.
    â€œDrink your tea,” Gillian said, wondering how things could get any worse. First her father had been slain, her brother maimed, and now Steven was dead, Camille was pregnant, Misa was in jail. And Frankie sat mute before her.
    â€œI’m so sorry, baby,” she said, watching him ignore the steaming mug in front of him. She knew that he probably wanted something much stronger than peppermint tea. “I know you looked out for Steven all his life.” She thought back to a conversation she and Frankie had only weeks earlier, on the night when they made love for the first time. He had shared with her some painful details of his childhood. They