Page 99 of Sin of Love
48
The funeralfor Maggie Sato is small. Besides Deirdre and myself, only Nate, London, and Dominic show up at dawn on the secluded beach north of Malibu. Not that we invited anyone else.
According to the morgue, Maggie left this world a Jane Doe, dead from a gunshot to the chest. There were no matches on the national missing persons database, and no hits on DNA or fingerprints. It’s doubtful Margaret Sato was even her real name.
Nate wanted us to leave the body unclaimed, but Deirdre wasn’t having it. I don’t pretend to understand all her motivations, but this one I understand well enough. There was a time when it could have been her on that slab, or Nate. Unclaimed. Unknown. And though many of Maggie’s choices led to Deirdre’s suffering in the past, her final choice led to Deirdre’s salvation.
I know because I saw it, half-conscious, trying to drag myself toward them with absolutely no hope of stopping bullets. Those moments will forever be imprinted in my memory, vivid, shocking in their clarity.
I thought I was going to watch her die. Instead, I watched the women whisper something to each other, and Deirdre jerk hard to the left and down.
They fell together, the three of them.
Only Deirdre got back up.
Once the police investigation ended, Los Angeles County was only too happy to have us take Maggie’s body off their hands. Now her ashes sit in a thick plastic bag, ready to be poured into a hole in the sand for the tide to slowly claim.
Someday, when this is a distant memory, I’ll tell Deirdre it’s illegal to dump ashes on beaches in California. Not today, though. I do have some tact. Case in point: I’m here, at a memorial for one of the people responsible for Deirdre’s suffering, and I’m keeping my mouth shut about it because this isn’t about Maggie. Not really. And I’ll do anything for Deirdre. Always.
“Would anyone like to speak?”
Deirdre’s smiling, serene, like we’re about to play ring-toss instead of say goodbye to a woman instrumental in her abduction and torture. But that’s been her mood lately—unfailingly optimistic—and I’m not about to piss on it.
Nate, Dominic, and I share glances, our eyes speaking volumes.
You do it—
Fuck no—
You go—
“I’ll start.”
We sigh in relief as London steps forward.
“I didn’t know Maggie, but I’ve heard a lot about her. There are certainly many reasons to hate her, for the pain she caused someone we love and the suffering she caused countless others. But here, today, I want to say goodbye to the little girl she once was, innocent and hopeful, and the woman she could have been. Rest in peace.”
Deirdre sniffles. She’s still smiling, though it’s small and wistful. “Thank you, London. That was beautiful. Anyone else?”
We shake our heads. Nate murmurs, “Rest in peace,” and Dominic and I echo him.
Kneeling on the sand, Deirdre opens the bag of ashes and pours them carefully into the hole we dug. She waves off my offer of help, working alone to fill the hole with sand, her movements purposeful, almost reverent, and her gaze unfocused.
“Be free now, Maggie.” Her fingers stroke the final layer of sand. “I’m sorry you suffered so much. Thank you for my life.”
And it’s done.
* * *
“Is the blindfold really necessary?”
Deirdre giggles, a sound I’m incredibly fond of both for its relative newness and increasing frequency. She sounds like a drunk toddler, so it’s also entertaining.
“Yes! Now shush, we’re almost to the studio.”
I can, of course, see fine out the bottom of the makeshift blindfold made of two strung-together dishtowels. But I don’t want to burst her bubble, going so far as to stumble every few feet.
“Good thing there’s no furniture in here,” I mumble as she pulls me swiftly across our former living room.
