Read the Mortician's Daughter Book 2 Two Feet Under by C.c. Hunter Online Free
C.C. Hunter: When Life Hurts, Love heals.
C.C. Hunter'southward Books
Three Heartbeats Abroad : Two Anxiety Nether : One Foot In The Grave : Special Content
Books In The Order They Were Published (Give-and-take doc download)
Iii HEARTBEATS AWAY
The Mortician'southward Daughter Series Volume iii
ISBN: 978-1733968935
Release date: June 15, 2019
Available Now!
The dead carry their secrets with them…
At least until they finish upward at Riley Smith's door. Her latest spectral visitor is a murdered helpmate with a need for revenge, and not necessarily for the person who killed her. Never mind that killer is well-nigh to strike again. Riley's adamant to help, but is missing Hayden, the hot, ghostly boy who'south always had her back.
Living, breathing Hayden is awake, which ways his spirit isn't around to flirt with Riley anymore. Worse yet, the "existent" Hayden doesn't call up her. Their connexion had been so strong. Did his feelings for Riley just disappear into the ether?
As Riley gets closer to finding the bride'due south killer, other secrets are revealed: secrets that change everything Riley thought she knew about her parents. But before she can completely unravel the mystery of her past, Riley will demand to escape the murderer that threatens her future.
TWO FEET Nether
The Mortician'south Daughter Serial Volume ii
ISBN: 978-1635764901
Release date: Dec 11, 2018
Publisher: EverAfter Romance
Bachelor Now!
The 2d exciting novel in a make-new series from New York Times bestselling author C. C. Hunter!
Riley has accepted that her special gift is to help dead people with their unfinished concern. Simply she never idea she'd be tasked with helping the spirit of a convicted criminal who died in prison house. He may atomic number 82 her on the scariest mission yet, just helping him could mean saving the life of a child. The convict'due south girl needs a liver transplant and the one person who could withal be a lucifer is his brother . . . who also happens to be a gang leader.
Hayden'south not happy that Riley's discovered who he is and is seeing him sick and unconscious in his infirmary bed. This feels like as good a time equally ever to cantankerous over and put all of them out of their misery . . . merely Riley is in danger. She's visiting some of the most dangerous spots and confronting some of the creepiest lowlifes in town. For her, he'll need to regain his strength and fight to go on her safe.
Merely dealing with other people's problems still can't continue Riley from her own. Her dad's drinking has gotten worse. And she'll before long learn it'southward because he's been keeping a huge, horrible secret that will change everything she believes about her family and her mother's death.
For thrills, chills, romance and laughter, buy The Mortician'due south Daughter: Two Feet Under today.
Write Bear on Readers Accolade Winner : The Carolyn Readers Choice Specialized Category Winner : New England Readers' Pick Finalist
Ane Pes IN THE GRAVE
The Mortician's Daughter Series Book 1
ASIN: B074WGBCDC
BN ID: 2940158936937
Release date: Oct 31st
Publisher: BookEnds
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The first exciting novel in a brand-new series from New York Times bestselling author C. C. Hunter!
Her dad'due south chore is with the expressionless . . . and he's bringing his work habitation with him.
Once more, seventeen-year-former Riley Smith is the new child in school and her dad'southward career has her back to existence dubbed a freak. Truth is, she'due south a much bigger freak than her classmates recollect. The only company she keeps these days is the dead who follow Dad domicile from work. She can see them. She can speak to them. And Fate seems to think she can help them solve their last issues so that they can motion on to the other side. Which is odd, because with the loss of her mother and her father'south alcoholism, she's got enough bug of her own.
Only cipher could prepare her for the next tormented immature spirit who darkens Riley's door. The young woman's death wasn't the accident anybody believes. Soon Riley finds herself face-to-face with the killer and her just protection comes in the form of another spirit, Hayden, a boy her age with a heart-melting smile and understanding eyes that brand her feel safe. If she can escape becoming the killer'due south next victim, Riley knows she'll have to help Hayden movement on also, but what if she can't let him get?
For thrills, chills, romance and laughter, preorder The Mortician's Daughter: 1 Pes in the Grave today.
Chapter One
Tin I go to jail for this?
The question snakes through my listen as I make my style down Expressionless Oak Street. The sound of my lawn tennis shoes smacking against the croaky sidewalk fills the cold, almost-night night. I pull my hoodie closer and hold my bag to my side similar a weapon.
A total moon makes its appearance early, hanging in the heaven that's however clinging to a spray of golden left over from the sunset. I chose this fourth dimension purposely, hoping everyone would be in their houses eating dinner, doing homework… non out watching for strangers trying to slip something into their mailbox.
Getting caught isn't an selection. Never mind if it's illegal—though it shouldn't be, I'm doing them a favor—it would bring questions down on me that I'yard not prepared to answer. That I'll never exist prepared to answer.
I spot an address on the street adjourn. My middle thumps and vibrates against my breastbone.
Three houses to go.
I continue moving and, staring down, remember the old song lyrics, Step on a crack, break your mother's dorsum. Since my mom'south expressionless, I don't have to worry. But what was the 2nd chorus? Pace on a line, break your father'southward spine.
Maybe I should avert lines. Dad has enough crap on his plate. Crap I wish I could aid him with, just I don't have a clue how to exercise that.
Taking a deep breath, telling myself this favor is well-nigh done, I keep walking toward house number 13. Why did it take to exist an unlucky number?
Homes on each side of the street line upward like dollhouses and seem to be watching me. Some of them are nighttime, and have a menacing look. Others accept gold lite leaking out of their windows like love lives there. Through one, I see a TV airing the evening news. Through another, I spot a family of iv having dinner. I wonder what it would exist like to accept that. To be role of a family unit. To be more than only "Dad and me." The earlier-Mom-died memories are so few, and even those are vague. Because I was four, I guess I'm lucky I have whatsoever at all.
Only one firm to go.
I come across the firm. Information technology's dark as if no one's home. The mailbox catches my eye. Information technology'south leaning, looking tired and old. The metal door flap is hanging open up.
This might be my lucky day.
I accomplish into my handbag and pull out the envelope.
The tightness in my chest releases. I can do this.
I take the terminal few steps, avoiding cracks and lines. A dog barks from across the street. The barking rings like a alarm, announcing a stranger is present. And I'm the stranger.
The yowling grows loud as if the animal is approaching. I accidently let the envelope slip from my fingers. I look over, hoping I'g not about to be mauled. The dog's in the middle of the road, yelping, alerting the neighborhood.
I stomp my human foot, and the canine scurries back across the street.
Heart pounding, I kneel down, snatch up the alphabetic character, and slip information technology into the mailbox.
Done. Problem solved. I tin go dwelling now.
And and so tin you, Bessie.
I expect upwardly at the bowl of darkening sky. Right then I see a shooting star race across the night, leaving a trail of glitter in its wake. I smiling. I know what information technology ways. A rightness enters my chest.
Before I accept my first pace away from the mailbox, I hear something… someone.
"What are y'all doing?" The girl's voice rings out.
The rightness is shattered.
I freeze and pray her words are for someone else. Then I meet the dark shadow sitting on the edge of the porch, almost hidden behind the hedges. Information technology's from house number xiii.
The air locks in my throat, a jolt of pivot-prickling hurting races under my skin.
I am and then caught.
The figure pushes off the porch, walking toward me.
I consider running, just my feet feel nailed to the sidewalk. Panic fills my empty tummy.
Even worse is that when she gets closer, I recognize her. Dark hair, light olive skin, dressed in black.
I don't remember her name, just I take two classes with her. English and history. She keeps to herself. Not coming off as shy and so much as… a loner. Maybe even someone with a chip on her shoulder.
I saw her scroll her optics at some girls who were being loud and obnoxious in history today. I wanted to scroll my eyes too. Their behavior was out of line.
"What are you doing?" she asks again.
Yup. I am so caught. So screwed. My mind races, seeking an answer she'll believe. One that would completely avert the truth. Non that she would believe the truth. Sometimes I still don't believe it.
I gulp down the knot of panic in my throat. "I, uh... A piece of mail had fallen out of your mailbox."
That sounded convincing, didn't information technology? I pray she believes me. Pray she hadn't seen the envelope in my manus before I'd dropped information technology.
Her brow pinches. "Oh." She stares at me, recognition widens her light light-green optics. "Aren't you the new girl at schoolhouse? Riley, right?"
I nod. The fact that she remembers my name when I don't retrieve hers makes me feel slightly guilty. "Yeah. Deplorable I don't recall yours."
"Kelsey," she spouts out affair-of-factly, not in an insulted kind of way, more like in a don't-give-a-damn way. And then she continues to stare at me suspiciously. "Yous live in the neighborhood?"
"Ii blocks over," I say. "I was only... taking a walk." I swallow, over again feeling the need to get the hell abroad from at that place. Away from her.
"I should... go." I'm fix to step abroad when I hear a truck pull into the driveway beyond the street. Doors open and slam closed, and male voices boom out. I await over. The streetlight is on, and I recognize one of the two boys. Jacob Adams. Tall, light brown hair, and an oh-so-confident way of carrying himself that most boys his age don't have. He laughs at something the other guy says, and the audio seems swallowed by darkness.
The fact that I know his name says something. Information technology says he'south 1 of the all-time-looking boys at school. Just it'southward non simply that. He'south likewise one of the few kids who's actually spoken to me in my first ten days of school. Not a whole conversation, but merely a quick introduction and welcome to Catwalk, Texas. Surprised the hell out of me.
The two boys, almost too loud for the night, go inside the house, and silence falls on the street over again. I can hear the streetlights buzzing, spitting out voltage. I feel a like nervous buzzing inside me.
"So that'south why you lot're here." Kelsey makes a disapproving noise from the back of her throat.
I don't understand what she means at first, and then bam! I go it. She thinks I'm stalking Jacob. I offset to deny it just then realize I could apply this. It'due south a plausible reason for beingness in that location. I that has nothing to practise with the existent reason. And really, what do I care if she believes I take a matter for Jacob. I kind of exercise.
"Don't waste your time," Kelsey says. "He's going out with Jami Holmes. Pop, big boobs, and a cheerleader."
Yep, I kind of knew that besides, which is why I wouldn't have bothered stalking Jacob even if I'd known where he lived. I endeavor to think of something to say, but nothing comes out. So I simply shrug.
She reaches into her mailbox and pulls out the envelope I just placed there along with two or iii other pieces of mail. "But he is overnice to wait at," she says. "If you similar his type."
"Yeah," I say like a confession, and wonder if that'southward what she was doing, hiding on her front porch. Stalking Jacob.
She holds the post in i hand and gives me 1 more await. "See yous around."
It feels as if I'm beingness dismissed. I tin can take a hint. I walk away. Equally I hurry back to my house, I wonder if Kelsey is kin to Bessie. Bessie is black and Kelsey's skin is much lighter, though her dark hair and olive complexion could mean she'due south of mixed race. We're all melting pots. Dad swears he's part Italian.
I'yard a block from my house when I experience information technology. The awareness of being watched. The fine hair on my arms stand up. My peel tightens. My side by side jiff brings in the scent of... I inhale over again... of jasmine.
I don't think it's Bessie.
I speed upwardly, hoping whoever information technology is will have the hint. Correct now, all I want is to become home. Not that it feels like a home yet. We've just been in this place two weeks.
The temperature drops. Chills start at the base of operations of my neck and slither down my spine. A new smell—this one spicy, bawdy, like aftershave—fills my next breath of air.
I hug myself, watch my feet move, and increase my speed. One foot in front of the other, faster, and faster.
* * *
Past the time I cut the corner to my block, the strip of gold has faded from the sky and the moon hangs bigger and brighter. I look downwards the street. Dad's motorcar is parked beside my old Mustang in the driveway.
Crap. He's probably worried. I start jogging, my feet slapping confronting the pavement. The second I accomplish the driveway, my telephone rings.
It's probably Dad. I cheque. Duh, of grade it is. No ane else calls me. Well, Shala, my best friend who I left in Dallas a year and two moves ago, occasionally calls. But similar Carl, the one-time love of my life, she's moved on. She institute a new all-time friend, leaving me pretty much friendless.
Moving when yous're in high school is hard. Everyone already has their confidants and cliques. Add together that to what my dad does for a living, and in their eyes, I'm a freak. Or at least a freak's daughter.
Not that I'm pissed at Dad or consider him strange. I'chiliad proud of him. Very few people can practice his task. I'g not even really pissed at the kids either. Truth is, I'm non merely a freak's girl, I'grand a bigger freak than they could ever guess. Than anyone could guess. But that'south my secret.
I commodities inside. "I'm here."
Pumpkin, my red tabby, rushes me, meowing. I pick him upwards.
Dad walks out of the kitchen, his prison cell telephone in his hand. His nighttime pilus is disheveled as if he ran his fingers through information technology one too many times. He needs a haircut. Normally, he'due south as groomed as a guy giving the six o'clock news—camera ready.
Another sign that things are going downhill. Once again.
"Where were y'all?" he asks.
"Walking." It'south not an out-and-out prevarication, but the twinge of guilt tugs on my conscience.
"Lone?" he asks.
"Yeah, just checking out the neighborhood."
"I prefer you do that when information technology'southward lite," he says. "Or at to the lowest degree exit a note. You scared me.
"
"It was calorie-free when I started out. And you're a little early. But I'm sad." I put Pumpkin downward and get correct for a hug. He hesitates, then puts his arms effectually me.
His smell is so familiar, and so comforting. How long has it been since I hugged him?
"Seriously, don't scare me like that."
"I won't." I keep my cheek on his warm chest. Even with his life in chaos, he hasn't stopped parenting. I appreciate that. Not that I'chiliad one of those kids who needs a lot of parenting. Shala used to say I needed to lighten up. That I acted similar a nun.
I reminded her that I wasn't the virgin, merely she wasn't referring to sex. She meant stuff similar drinking, smoking weed, and skipping school. Stuff most kids do. I've never been similar most kids.
To brand her happy, I finally played hooky a couple of times.
"You okay?" my dad asks when I pull dorsum.
I guess the hug was a fiddling too much. "Yes. I got dinner ready."
He follows me into the kitchen, but frowns and puts a hand on his stomach. "I ate one of those twelve-inch sub sandwiches, when I should have stopped at six. But I'll sit with you while y'all consume."
"You lot should swallow a little something," I say. "Information technology'due south beef stew."
"If I get hungry, I'll fix myself a plate later." He grabs two waters from the fridge and sits at the table. I'g non hungry either. The before panic took a bite out of my appetite, just I snag a bowl and dish myself a small helping from the Crock-Pot.
"How's school?" Dad unscrews his water and pushes the other toward me.
"It's okay. The new semester starts next week." I run my spoon around the chunks of beef, carrots, and potatoes earlier I take a seize with teeth. Pumpkin leaps upwardly on the table, landing with feline grace.
"Down," Dad orders.
Of course, Pumpkin doesn't obey. He's a cat. I pick him up and set him downwards. Then I drop a piece of beef from my bowl onto the floor.
Dad sees me and shakes his head. "You're also soft."
Guilty. I hate disappointing people or even pets.
"You still planning on taking auto tech?" he asks, and nigh sounds disapproving.
"Yes. Why?"
"I don't know. I mean, I wonder if there are even any other girls taking it."
"I don't care. I'm not scared of boys."
"You should be. All teenage boys are dogs. I know. I used to be one."
"I'm non agape of dogs either." As deplorable as information technology is, I kind of concord with him. I hateful, await how fast Carl moved on.
Dad frowns. "I don't want my petty daughter to grow up to exist a mechanic. Yous're going to college."
I roll my eyes. "There'southward nothing wrong with being a mechanic. They brand a killing. But for your information I'g non interested in being a grease monkey. And I am going to college." I say that with confidence, because I've already researched school loans.
The one fourth dimension I brought upward getting a school loan, he said no, that he could beget it. But I know afterwards his time on the unemployment list, money is in short supply.
Which is function of my reason for taking car tech. I don't want Dad to have to fork out money to fix all the little things that go wrong on an former car. The more I know most the Mustang, the more contained I am. And I kind of like my independence.
But eventually going out on my own means I'll be leaving Dad alone. Who'll spotter out for him?
Pumpkin paws at my leg, wanting another taste. I ignore him.
"Also, y'all probably already know everything the grade covers," Dad says.
"Because I had a good teacher. But I could notwithstanding learn a few things." I smile. He's right. I spent a lot of time under that car—with Dad. He put himself through college working for a garage. Together we redid the Mustang's engine. It was my fifteenth birthday present. Our neighbour had put a for-auction sign on the car, and the moment I saw information technology, I wanted information technology.
Not considering I'm a car freak, or a Mustang freak. But I'd seen a moving picture of i my mom used to ain. Honestly, I didn't plan on getting my hands dirty working on that car. At first Dad insisted, then he didn't take to insist. Not because I enjoyed working on the car, just because of how much I enjoyed spending time with him.
It was our first existent bonding feel. Before that, I'd e'er gotten a feeling Dad didn't know how to parent a daughter. My offset bra and the whole starting-my-menstruum experience about killed him. And not once has he said the discussion "sexual practice."
Working on that Mustang gave us something in common.
"Speaking of cars," Dad says, smile, "I'yard about to make your day."
"Actually."
"Yup. I got your insurance card in the mail."
"Yes!" I practise a little victory dance in my chair. When he lost his last job, he had to cut the insurance on my car, so I haven't been able to bulldoze it for almost two months.
"And then I tin drive information technology to school tomorrow?" I enquire and squeal a little.
"Yeah." He chuckles. "You and that auto."
Thrilled I don't have to walk to schoolhouse anymore, I dish a big bite of stew into my rima oris and taste it for the first time. Information technology'due south good. "Y'all sure you don't want a bowl?"
"No."
He sips his water. I eat. The nearly empty echo in the house reminds me how big it is. All our houses in the by have been small, older. They seemed to fit united states of america better.
"Have you made whatever friends at schoolhouse?" Dad asks.
I most lie, so decide confronting it. "Not actually."
A sudden puff of steam rises from my basin. A chill runs down my spine. I continue to eat and ignore it. Pumpkin hauls ass out from nether the table and darts under the sofa.
Dad frowns. "You should put yourself out in that location more than. Make some friends."
I point my spoon at him and force my optics to stay on him. Just him. "Says the man who never puts himself out in that location."
"I'm around people all the fourth dimension."
"Dead people don't count." I elevator a brow and take another bite.
"Not just dead people." He turns the water canteen in his hand. "Did y'all get into the honors classes you wanted for next semester?"
"I recollect so," I say. Skillful grades hateful a possible scholarship. I'thousand going to demand i.
My next intake of air brings with it a hint of jasmine. I retrieve smelling it before.
Dad leans back in his chair. "At that place'southward an antique motorcar show going on downtown this weekend. I thought we'd go. Hang out. Talk cars with people."
"Great idea." I finish my final bite of stew and go rinse out the bowl and put it in the dishwasher. Then I pull out containers to store the leftovers.
I hear his chair scrape across the floor. "I'll put the stew away."
"I tin can practice it." I take a deep breath. The jasmine scent is stronger now.
"Don't you lot accept homework?" he asks.
"Yeah, but information technology's non—"
"Then go. You do too much around here," he says. "You should be hanging out with girlfriends and not taking care of a household."
"I don't mind."
He steps closer and brushes my hair off my cheek. "I swear y'all look more and more like your mom every day."
I'k surprised at his words. He hardly always mentions her. Correct then I see a familiar sadness in his light chocolate-brown eyes. I go in for another hug. A brusque ane.
When I pull back, I look at him. "You still miss her, don't y'all?"
"A little." He turns back to the Crock-Pot, away from me. Maybe abroad from what he's feeling.
I fill up Pumpkin'south nutrient bowl. The true cat comes running. I stare at Dad'southward dorsum. Even his posture seems extra sad.
"How was piece of work today?" I ask, wondering if that'south the trouble. Hoping that'southward the only trouble. He swears it doesn't affect him, but I know information technology does.
"The aforementioned." He moves to the counter and lifts the lid off the Crock-Pot. A big puff of steam rises. He looks back. "Go do your homework. I'll shut upward the downstairs. I call back I'yard going to retire early with a book."
I stand at that place and watch him pour the stew into 2 bowls. "Did you lot get a new customer today?"
He frowns up at me. "I told y'all, a mortician should never bring his piece of work home with him."
But Dad does bring his work home with him. Or possibly his clients but follow him. Like correct now.
The immature adult female stares at Dad, looking as if she'due south walked out of the yellowed pages of an old photograph album. She appears confused and lonely, wearing an orange sundress and jasmine perfume.
Dad can't run into her, tin't talk to her.
But I tin can.
Affiliate Ii
Before I get upstairs, I give Dad a shoulder crash-land, afraid three hugs in a dark might exist likewise much. So I grab a handful of cookies and head upstairs. Once I'yard at the landing, I turn and look to see if she's followed me.
She hasn't. Just Pumpkin has.
The woman will find me sooner or subsequently. They always do.
It started happening about a year and a one-half ago, right before we moved from Dallas. At starting time it freaked me out. Like really freaked me out. Merely then I realized not one ghost had done anything to hurt me. I'm not sure they could.
Or maybe I simply desire to believe that.
Most of them but desire to talk. Some of them need something. A favor. Merely that'southward okay, because I ever ask a favor of them besides.
Then far, none of them have been able to help me. Simply I however help them. And it'south not always easy, either.
Like the favor for Bessie.
She'd bought life insurance six months ago, but neglected to tell her daughter.
I couldn't go up and merely tell the family that Bessie had insurance. So I copied and pasted the insurance logo from their website and then it'd look legit. I printed a label, addressed the alphabetic character to Bessie, put the policy number at the top. I wrote the letter as if it was a reminder to her that they were nonetheless waiting for her to pick up a copy of the policy.
I was going to merely mail service it, only since I'd stolen the logo I feared sending information technology through the U.s.a. Post might make it a federal offense. Instead, I spent an hour last night drawing a postmaster seal to make it look like it had been mailed. Then I spent another thirty minutes forging the company president's signature which I'd found on the website.
I thought information technology looked quite convincing. It's i thing I'm proficient at: drawing, copying things. Not usually forging signatures. But now I realize that if anyone questions information technology, Kelsey might be able to point a finger at me, since she'd seen me exterior the house.
Corking! Something else to worry about.
I go to my sleeping room door and leave it open.
Returning to my bed, I sit down. Wait.
I'm barely situated when she appears. She looks pretty in the dress. Her hair is blond, hanging in a prissy great moving ridge. Confusion mars her lovely face up. I'd had a spirit, an elderly homo, last yr that hadn't realized he was expressionless. Giving that scrap of news was loads of fun. Not.
I'm hoping this won't be a repeat of that case.
"You tin can see me, can't you?" she asks.
I nod. When it first started happening, I tried pretending I didn't. But something always gave me away. They'd move. I'd leap. They'd talk. I'd listen.
I discovered it's easier to just deal with them, to go them to pass over. That's the best part. Seeing them go. They are all different. Bessie was that shooting star. Some of them go a bolt of color. I can't really explain the feeling, but when I see them cantankerous over, there's this sensation like... I did something really proficient. Similar I've just checked off one item on Destiny's to-practice listing.
Truthfully, this isn't anything I would have called. But that's kind of the signal. I didn't cull it. It chose me. And for that reason, it feels like fate. As if turning away from it will screw up some underlying purpose for my life. This doesn't stop me from sometimes resenting it.
The woman gets tears in her optics. She's young, but older than me. Perchance in her twenties.
"Is he your begetter?" she asks.
I nod.
"He's a nice man."
They all tell me that. That he respects them when he drains their blood, and when he fills them back up with embalming fluid. They say when he gets them ready for the funeral he takes his time. Looks at photos of them and tries to get it right. They tell me he even talks to them, only he never answers them when they talk back.
I get up to close the door, and then Dad won't notice me talking, just then I hear it. The sound. That little noise.
My chest fills with a heaviness. I lean against the doorframe and fight the tears stinging all the way upwardly my sinuses.
Who knew the sound of water ice filling a glass could be and so lamentable? Pitiful because I know he'due south pouring himself a drink. Probably the start of many tonight.
This morning I had to wake him upward before I went to school. Unremarkably, he beats the sun upwards. He looked every bit if the sun had already beaten him up, just at to the lowest degree he went to piece of work. Would he tomorrow? Is he going to mess up and lose this chore, too?
He'due south a good man. He's the only family unit I have. I love him, but I'm pretty sure he's an alcoholic. And I don't know what to practice.
He's so proud that he's hiding it from me. He'south so afraid to permit me down. And he is. He's letting himself down likewise.
Anger stirs my gut. I'm tempted to storm downstairs and rip open up his underground, try to stop him, just I'g afraid he'll simply drink more then. At to the lowest degree if he's hiding it from me, he'south not drinking all the fourth dimension.
I shut the door and plough to confront the ghost, just she'south gone.
That'southward fine. I'm not really up to talking right now. I demand to figure out how the hell I'm going to help my dad.
* * *
Two hours later, I've finished my cookies, my homework, and my pity party. And I'm no closer to figuring annihilation out. I go to accept a shower. A short ane. Wet but clean, I pace across the hall with a towel wrapped effectually me. I can't assistance stopping to listen for the sound of the refrigerator spitting out more ice. Thankfully, merely silence whispers up the stairway.
I effort to tell myself that he'due south okay. He's not drinking likewise much. But from what I've heard about alcoholism, even i drink is too many.
He'southward never told me he'southward an alcoholic. I read well-nigh information technology in Mom'south diary. I found the pocket-sized leather journal in a box tucked away in a closet when we moved concluding twelvemonth. At that place were merely a few months' worth of entries, but I treasure every word.
The older I get, the more I anguish to know everything almost her. Did she detest fish like I do? Did she cry at a driblet of a hat when she was on her period?
When I told Dad I'd institute her diary, he'd seemed upset, but he didn't ask me to return information technology. And I didn't offer. I kept the photographs, too.
Dad had given me a few photos a couple of years before when I'd asked him nigh her. I still wonder why he didn't give them all to me then. Does he still miss her that much?
I step back into my room. Pumpkin stands on the edge of my bed, his orange hair puffed up around his neck, his ears tucked dorsum to his head. I know what that means.
"She's back," I say and plow around. Then I meet... not her, just him. I almost scream. Air bubbles up in my throat.
I don't even know why I'm so startled, except I was expecting it to be the aforementioned woman in orange. It's non.
He's standing there, a good foot taller than me, nighttime dark-brown pilus, blue eyes. Young. My age. Optics wide. Optics that are checking me out.
I suddenly feel naked. Oh, hell, I am naked, except for a strategically placed towel.
"Leave!" I look down to make sure all of my important parts are covered. Unfortunately, the towel is small, and either my top or my lesser is going to exist a little compromised.
His optics elevator up, wide with surprise, and he... smiles.
Smiles.
"How-do-you-do," he says.
Hi? You lot don't say hi when someone yells for you to get out! I scowl at him.
"Sorry," he says, which is better, but he doesn't sound lamentable. He doesn't expect sorry. He looks happy. Like I'thousand a present that'south already unwrapped.
"I said get out!" I even stomp my foot like an aroused two-twelvemonth-old.
He fades. Only then do I realize another reason I was then startled. He was different. For a fraction of a second I thought he was... real. Live.
All of the spirits in the past looked like faded photographs, aged and kind of yellowed. He wasn't faded. He was... brilliant. He was... besides young to die.
I hurry to my closet, close myself in there, take a few deep breaths, then pull on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.
When I step out, I look around. He's not in that location. Pumpkin peers at me from nether my bed skirt.
"Is he gone?" I ask my cat as if he might answer.
Then I aroma it. That same aroma I got before when walking dwelling house. Aftershave. Or deodorant. They all come with their own scent. Each different, like a fingerprint.
But this ane is almost familiar. It's a boy smell. A cute-boy smell.
Carl used to smell similar after he showered. I used to actually like that scent. When I accept another deep breath, I also detect a hint of jasmine.
Oh, crap! Does that mean I have two spirits? I've never had two at a time. I'thousand not sure I can handle that.
* * *
"Have a good day, Sweetie." Dad squeezes my shoulder and picks upwards his briefcase and lunch bag. "Be careful driving. I left the insurance card on the coffee tabular array. You lot have enough lunch money?"
"Aye. Thanks," I say without enthusiasm and spoon some Lucky Charms into my oral fissure. I'm however pissed at him.
Although I didn't accept to wake him up this forenoon—he was packing himself some stew for luncheon when I came downwardly—he appears to be dragging. I'grand not an expert on hangovers, just I saw Carl moving around similar a sloth a couple of times later indulging in also many beers.
When Dad walks out, I spoon-chase a pink marshmallow effectually my bowl, then just drop the utensil with a thump on the table. What am I going to exercise near him?
I sit there listening to Pumpkin crunch on his kibbles. Then bam, I realize I'm not relying on the get-to source that's helped me through near of life's issues—my first period, sexual practice, how to use a condom—hey, I wanted to make sure Carl did it right.
Yup, Google had saved me. I run upstairs, sit at my desk, and type in "alcoholism." Ten minutes after, I'g more confused than when I sabbatum down. It's not that at that place's non whatever communication. At that place's too much.
And reading it makes me enlightened that I have no proof that Dad'southward drinking. Or that he'southward actually an alcoholic. I merely read it in a diary written before I was born. Yeah, I heard the ice last nighttime, I know he lost his final two jobs afterward showing signs of irresponsibility—sleeping belatedly, calling in sick—all of which he'd never washed before.
But is that enough to draw this decision?
Other than the two job losses that he swears were due to other issues, I have no proof. I've never seen him so much as consume a beer. Never seen him stumbling, slurring his words. Never fifty-fifty smelled it on him.
I demand proof. Only perhaps I don't take it because I oasis't looked for information technology.
Snagging my backpack, I run downstairs, drib it on the table, and comb through the cabinets. Nothing. No liquor. No evidence.
I plough around and stare at Dad'due south airtight bedroom door. I move toward it, achieve for the knob. Turning it is and so hard. This is Dad's room. He'south a private homo. Invading his infinite feels... wrong on every level.
Something else feels wrong, besides. Silence. So silent I hear the living room clock counting time. Tick. Tick. Tick. It seems to be the only sound in the business firm.
My heart starts to keep beat with the tiny sound. The slight thump in my chest makes me realize I've stopped animate. My gaze shifts to the clock on the living room wall.
If I don't leave for school at present, I'm going to be late. That's all the motivation I need to permit go of the doorknob. Later.
I cut off the kitchen calorie-free, throw my insurance card in my haversack, and fly into the entryway.
And come up to a prophylactic-sole-skidding halt.
He'south standing in front of the door, blocking information technology, looking too vivid, withal smiling. I inhale to confirm his odor. Information technology'south there. Still familiar. The aroma takes me back to existence close with Carl. Back to beingness intimate with Carl.
"You going to school?" His voice is deep, most husky.
"Yeah," I manage, and rub my thumb and index finger on the haversack strap hanging off one shoulder.
He leans against the wall, as if he plans to stay there and visit with me for a long time. "What class are you in?"
"Twelfth." I realize in my haste to get out, I forgot to brush my teeth. With my luck, I've got a greenish marshmallow stuck to my pearly whites. I run my tongue over them.
His smile widens. "So am I."
Am, not was. He's speaking in the present tense. Does he not know he's... dead?
The way his blueish optics study me reminds me of how he stared at me nearly naked terminal nighttime. As if he might be envisioning me like that right now.
"We need to... set some rules. Y'all tin't only..." I'm tongue-tied, nervous, cute-boy kind of nervous. That'south then wrong. Talk about ii people being incompatible. "You tin can't merely pop—"
"What's that saying well-nigh how rules are meant to be broken?" He grins.
I frown, tighten my eyes, and glare at him.
"Just joking," he says teasingly. "What's your name?"
"Riley." I hitch my backpack upwardly college on my shoulder. "Yours?"
He pauses one second. "Hayden."
It's different, sort of like him, so I gauge it fits him. "I... gotta go."
He tucks his hands deep into his jean pockets. His shoulders circular. The muscles in his artillery bulge out only a bit. Yup, information technology's definitely beautiful-boy kind of nervous that I'1000 feeling.
"Okay," he says.
Pumpkin hisses behind me.
"Stay away from my cat," I mumble and motion for him to pace away from the door.
He inches to the side merely non quite enough. Not that it matters—he'due south not mankind and blood. I switch my backpack onto my other shoulder and head out. I'g i foot out the door when I realize what happened. I felt him. Not like a person, but a light impact every bit if someone brushed a plumage across bare skin. And... he wasn't cold. Why wasn't he... ice cold like the others?
I close and lock the door. Run my hand over my tingling shoulder. And so, with my heart doing double time, I hurry to my motorcar.
I start the auto and bulldoze away. Riding shotgun is the question: What makes this boy so unlike from all the others?
Affiliate Three
I fret about Hayden the whole drive. Now, really close to beingness tardily, I take the outset school parking spot I tin can observe, unbuckle, grab my backpack and go out. I turn and lock the auto. Ane bad thing about an former car: no automated locks.
Equally I'm pulling the key out of the door, I hear steps behind me, and then, "Wow." Followed past, "Is that your car?"
"Yep," I complain and swing effectually, feet ready to run. Only the second I see who's continuing there, my size sevens aren't and then worried virtually being late.
Jacob and... I remember the guy who was with him last night... stand up a few feet from me. Jacob is staring at me. His friend is staring at my Mustang.
"How-do-you-do," I say and pull out a special smile reserved for good-looking guys. Or I should say, good-looking living guys. I didn't smile at Hayden.
"Is information technology a iv-speed?" Jacob'due south friend asks.
"Yeah."
He stares at me every bit if shocked. "Y'all can drive a transmission?"
I nod. It took well-nigh two months and every ounce of patience Dad has for me to chief information technology, only they don't need to know that.
"Does information technology accept a 289 engine?" The friend moves closer to the machine.
"No, just a 200, direct half dozen. But I'm non complaining."
He stops staring at my car and now is studying me the fashion a male child studies a girl. "Tell me you know how to work on information technology, and I'm going to put a ring on your finger."
A little flattered, but generally embarrassed, I laugh. At present if it was Jacob proverb that…?
The school bong rings.
"Gotta get." I outset walking.
Plain not worried nearly existence late, they both linger to check out my auto some more than. Before I push button through the school doors, I look back... at Jacob, not so much his friend, even though both of them are easy on the eyes.
Not every bit hot as Hayden.
The instant the idea wiggles through my heed, I reject it and give myself a mental kick in the ass.
I must really be desperate if I'm getting the hots for a dead guy.
* * *
Having flushed nearly of my Lucky Charms cereal down the garbage disposal this morning, I feel my stomach gnawing on my backbone by lunchtime. I snag a slice of pizza, fries, and a fudge cookie, and try non to count the carbs. Shala, who used to accept a chip of a weight trouble, was a walking, talking carb meter, and fifty-fifty after all this time, I tin notwithstanding count carbs as fast I can eat them.
It's a good matter I don't proceeds weight easily because I've never a met a carb I could resist. From the pictures of my mom, she was naturally thin, too.
I hand the cashier my money. She lifts her face. Her blond hair is in a ponytail, and some of it hangs in front of her face, most equally if she'south trying to hibernate. She tucks the loose hair behind her ear, her blue eyes meet mine, and she smiles. I remember her kind of doing that yesterday, too. It's a different kind of smile. As if she recognizes me. Probably has me mixed upwards with someone else.
"You are extra vivid today," she says.
I wait downwards at my navy shirt and jeans. I don't sympathise what she means, simply I smiling and take my change. As I walk away, I feel her gaze stuck to my back.
She'south an odd duck.
It's only when I expect and come across my peers, all sitting in groups, laughing and chatting like friends exercise, that I recollect how much I hate lunch period. Why is information technology that you're never as lonely past yourself every bit you are in a crowd?
I head to a spot at the stop of a table with several empty seats. I'm seated and taking a good long sip of my water when someone drops down next to me.
I most choke on my Water when I see it's Kelsey. My get-go thought is that she's here to face up me about the letter, which causes my appetite to take a dive. I set my h2o down and await for her to start accusing me.
But she doesn't even look at me, simply starts forking at her salad.
After a few awkward seconds, I throw in the towel and say, "Hello."
"Hi," comes the one-give-and-take echo.
She'due south mentally immersed in her food tray, and not me, and then I selection up my pizza and take a bite. It'south cardboard with tomato sauce, but the cheese makes it edible.
"Word is you lot're cool as shit," she says, still studying her salad.
I swallow. "What?"
"Your car. Jacob and Dex were talking about information technology in math."
Dex must be the other boy.
"I'grand not cool equally shit," I say. But I remember that almost the same affair happened at the last school. My automobile makes a big impression on some people. Only then they find out my dad is a mortician, and my absurd status bites the grit.
Does he take to touch 'em? Does he hug you when he comes abode from work? What does he do with the blood he drains from their bodies? Does he odor like dead people?
Verbal jabs have been tossed at me for as long as I tin remember. I've basically come to the conclusion that there are some careers that should crave sterilization. And mortician is i of them. The just other person who got teased more than than me in school about their father'due south career was Marla Butts.
Her father was a proctologist. The homo could have at least changed his name.
"You lived hither long?" I ask, a little curious as to why she doesn't seem to take friends.
"A year." She forks a cherry tomato plant, holds it up and stares at it. "Where did you lot motility from?"
"Dallas." I pop a fry into my oral cavity. Information technology's cold, but salty and greasy.
"I'm sorry," she says.
Say what? I study her eyeballing her fork. "Sorry for what?" I don't think she's looked at me since she sat downward, and it feels weird talking to someone who seems more than emotionally invested in a cherry love apple than our conversation.
"Dallas," she says.
"You lot don't similar Dallas?"
She pushes the tomato plant off her fork and stabs a piece of lettuce. "No, it'southward great. I lived right outside of Dallas for eight years. I'1000 sorry for you having to move here. This is a lamentable, screwed-up, deadening town."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just shrug. Not that she sees it. Her attending is now on a cucumber she's chasing around her bowl.
"Why did you movement here?" she asks.
I flinch at the question.
"My father's task."
Please don't let her ask what he does. I'chiliad non ready for that. And knowing my dad works at the funeral dwelling house where Bessie is might connect me to the letter.
"What brought you lot hither?" I toss out, hoping to distract her from the career question.
"My female parent got tired of her latest live-in boyfriend beating the shit out of her."
I don't know what to say to that either. But I force out a "Distressing."
"I'm not. Not that she left him. Just sorry that my grandmother lived in this one-half-ass town."
And so, Bessie was her grandmother? I pick up the pizza and every bit I do I meet her bracelet. It reads, Black Lives Matter.
"Do your parents similar it here?" She's still not looking at me.
"My dad seems to." I hesitate and, sensing she'southward nigh to inquire, become ahead and say it. "My mom passed away when I was young."
"That sucks." She pauses and so asks, "Does your dad give a shit well-nigh you lot? Word is mine never did."
It's strange to exist talking about personal stuff with someone I don't even know. Yet, for a reason I don't understand, I'm compelled to answer.
"Yeah, he does." For all of my problems with my dad, I know he cares most me. And if what I believe is true, information technology's himself that he doesn't care enough about. For some reason, I experience the need to look upwards. My gaze goes straight to the cashier, who is staring at me. What'due south with her?
"My grandmother but died."
Kelsey's confession yanks my attention back to her. Is that sadness I hear in her tone, see in her eyes? And so I realize she's looking at me for the first time.
"Sorry." I mean it. I liked Bessie. And while I don't know what it's like to lose someone—I don't remember losing Mom—I know what information technology'due south like to not take someone. To miss them. To feel every bit if there's an empty spot in your life.
She continues to stare at me. It of a sudden feels like too much. I have a seize with teeth of my pizza.
"Or did you already know she died?"
I wiggle my gaze back to her. She knows. Damn it! She knows. I consume the half-chewed bite of pizza. A big lump rolls downwards my throat. "Why... why would I know that?"
"Because everyone is talking about it. She died of a heart attack at the grocery shop."
"I'm deplorable about that. Merely... I didn't know. I don't talk to anyone." Except the dead. I swear I feel the one-half-chewed glob of pizza hit my generally-empty breadbasket.
She continues to look at me, and for some reason I don't believe her. Not well-nigh how Bessie died. That makes sense. The kickoff time she came to me, she was holding a can of English language peas. What I don't believe is Kelsey's reason she thinks I know about Bessie's decease.
Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.
The bell rings. She tosses her napkin onto her lunch tray.
I practice the aforementioned. "I'll see you in history," I say.
"No, you won't," she answers and looks at me over again. "I have a funeral to attend." She stands up, her eyes stay on me. "I'll say hi to your dad."
I consume empty air. "How do you know…?"
She merely smiles, then turns and walks abroad.
* * *
Pumpkin greets me in the entryway when I get home. Which unremarkably means the house is ghost-free. I kind of hope information technology stays that fashion. I've got too much rolling around in my mind.
I'm clueless as to how Kelsey knows who my dad is. Well, there'south my last proper noun, simply face it, Smith is about the about common proper noun there is. I just promise she doesn't suspect my interest with the letter.
Equally I move in and toss my haversack on the sofa, my gaze goes to my dad's bedchamber door. I remember my earlier determination to figure out if he's drinking. I don't have a clue what I'll do if he is.
Crap. I'thousand jam-packed with cluelessness.
I stand there staring at the door, again feeling it would be an intrusion into his life. But don't I need to know? I'chiliad nearly to take a pace closer when my phone dings with a text.
I pull it out, thinking it might be Shala. In that 2nd, I consider confiding in her nigh my dad'south problem. We used to talk virtually everything. Well, not almost the ghosts, but everything else.
I kind of need a voice of reason. I need a friend.
Then I look at the phone. Information technology's non Shala. Information technology's Dad.
You habitation from schoolhouse prophylactic?
I type Merely got home.
How did the car drive?
Like a dream.
He texts Don't cook dinner. We'll social club pizza. Stew was good. Thanks.
He sounds so normal. And so okay that I turn away from the door and go requite Pumpkin his after-school treat. Then I grab some Rice Krispies Treats for myself. Xx-five mouth-watering carbs. Yum.
Stomach happy, I take hold of my backpack and caput upstairs. I barely have any homework, but I might besides get it out of the mode.
Half an hour subsequently, I'chiliad finished with homework and lying dorsum on my bed watching the ceiling fan spin. I let out a deep breath and recollect near Kelsey at her grandmother's funeral. I'thou sad for her.
She didn't come off as grief stricken but I'm pretty sure I caught a touch of it in her vocalisation. It hurts to lose people.
I roll over and look at the framed photo beside my bed. It's i I plant in the box with Mom'south things. A film of ii pairs of feet, 1 developed and ane child, both with moisture-looking painted toenails. When I first saw it, I swear I remembered that twenty-four hours. Remembered Mom painting my toenails. Remembered how she smelled like sunshine, like honey.
Crazy how you can miss someone you barely remember. Only I exercise. I miss her so badly it hurts sometimes.
Exhaling, I popular up, run to the bathroom, observe my blast polish and a towel, and head back to my bed.
I clip my toenails, place my feet on the towel on the bed, and paint them a mellow pink. I look back at the photograph, at Mom's polka-dotted toe design, and I reach for the second nail polish and get-go adding polka dots to my toes. That'south when I feel the temperature driblet. My mind goes to Hayden. A slight nervous flutter happens in my gut and I look up.
It'due south non Hayden, but the blond-haired adult female. Pumpkin leaps off the side of my bed and goes to hide in my closet.
She's staring at my toes. I finish dabbing dots onto my large toe, so put the nail polish back on my bedside table.
"What's your name?" I enquire.
She doesn't answer.
I'm always unsure how to get them talking. But until they exercise, I don't know if they only need to be told it'due south okay to pass on, if they have something to get off their chest, or if there's something more. Because I seem to have two ghosts at the moment, I'k hoping both are easy to handle.
"I'm Riley."
"I know." Her words are a mere whisper that seems to hang in the air.
"Practice you know what happened?" I ask, wanting to confirm she knows she'south... dead.
She looks at me, her expression now one of desperation. "Bessie said you helped her. I need you to exercise something for me."
"If I tin can," I say, conscientious not to make promises.
"Find my ring. I want my infant sister to have it."
"Where is it?" I say and hear Pumpkin hiss. Poor cat.
"It'due south in the woods."
"What woods?"
"Just find information technology." She gets tears in her eyes and I meet something more than but desperate tears. Fright. She's afraid. She shakes her head back and forth. "Information technology was so wrong."
"What was incorrect?" I ask.
"I tin can't... I just... You have to find it." She'due south wringing her hands. I tin can meet them trembling.
"I tin can't discover information technology unless I know where information technology is." I speak in a calm voice. "Do you lot know where it is?"
"I know." She paces my room one time before she looks back at me. "It'due south at... Lake Coulee Country Park."
"Isn't that in Brian County?" I ask.
She nods.
I bite down on my lip. "That'southward a footling far away." Dad would freak if he knew I'd driven that far. "I don't know if I can—"
"You have to do information technology!" Anger brightens her eyes. "Oasis't you ever lost anything that's precious? Something that can't be replaced? Something that meant the world to y'all?"
She fades, simply the sound of her crying echoes in my caput, like a song that won't let go.
My side by side breath brings an overwhelming sadness, accompanied by fear, exploding fear that crowds my chest. It comes on and then fast, then common cold and then harsh, my chest hurts. The fear accelerates. Panic I don't understand claws at my insides.
Gasping, I put my manus on my breast. This has happened before. Sometimes I seem to have on their emotions, merely this fourth dimension is stronger. I can't handle this. I... can't exhale. I feel equally if someone has their hand over my mouth. I reach for my face, but in that location's no mitt. I go on gasping, only at that place's no air to be found.
I experience myself being sucked into some dark identify. Black spots like fireworks pop off in my vision. Shit! Now am I the one who's going to die?
Bachelor Now!
Source: http://www.cchunterbooks.com/books/themorticiansdaughter.html