One Foot in the Grave Page 22

  “You were so smart not to get out of that car,” the officer says and he tells us that the man was a known rapist and that I fit the profile of his victims. Blondes with light eyes.

  I start shaking, praying he doesn’t say Abby’s name so Dad won’t learn the connection.

  The officer doesn’t say her name but mentions a girl’s death at the park.

  “Wait,” Dad says. “Is that Abby Howard?”

  The officer nods. Dad explains how he knows her. I panic.

  Dad puts his arm around me and hugs me tight. Air is knotted in my lungs.

  The officer looks at me. “Have you been to the funeral home lately?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll bet he saw you there.”

  “Why would he go to the funeral home?” my dad asks.

  “Murderers do that sometimes.”

  I don’t think I’ve breathed since Abby’s name was mentioned, but I try to pull in air.

  “Will she need to testify?” my dad asks.

  “We don’t know right now. There’s a better chance you might not because we have other evidence. But we are going to take your car to the police station to confirm a match with the paint. We should have that done in a couple of days. Oh, and he does have insurance.” He glances at my dad. “I’ll make sure you get that information.”

  Dad insists I come home with him. I tell him I think I can make the day, but he’s insistent. And probably right. I think it’s just hitting me what happened. So I don’t argue.

  As we drive away from the school, Dad says, “You did good today, Riley. Oh, God, I can’t imagine what I would do if something terrible happened to you.”

  I’m still upset, but I realize what an opportunity this is. I swallow the knot of dread down my throat.

  “I know how you feel, Dad. I worry everyday about you. About your drinking.”

  He glances at me with a bit of shock. “We already discussed that, Riley.”

  “I know. And I also know you lied. I found the bottles in your dirty clothes hamper.”

  His mouth drops open. “What were you doing . . .”

  “In your room?” I ask. Then I answer it. “I was looking for your liquor. I’m sorry that I invaded your space, but in a way, I’m not sorry. You need help.”

  He turns back to the road and I can see his frown in his profile. His hands tighten on the wheel. My heart tightens with it.

  We drive the rest of the way in silence. When he pulls into the drive, he just sits there and so do I. I know this conversation isn’t over.

  Silence thickens the air in the car. He finally clears his throat and speaks. “You are right. I’ve been drinking too much. I’ll cut back.”

  “Cut back? No, Dad. You can’t drink. You’re an alcoholic.”

  He makes this sound that comes from the back of his throat. “Why would you think that?”

  “You’ve lost two jobs in the last two years. You look disheveled and hung over. And I read about it in Mom’s diary.”

  His mouth drops open again. “She wrote that?”

  “Yes.”

  He shakes his head. “Well, your mom was . . . she dramatized everything just like you do. Yes, I sometimes drink too much, but I’m not . . . an alcoholic.”

  “Then why have you hidden it from me all these years? Why do you hide your bottles in the dirty clothes?”

  “I . . . didn’t want you thinking you should drink!” His tone is defensive. He’s angry.

  But I don’t care. This has to be said.

  “People drink, Dad. Only people with problems hide it from others.”

  “That’s simply not true! I said I’ll cut back and I will.” He gets out of his car and shuts the car door a little harder than needed.

  I sit there for several seconds, hugging myself, wondering if telling him was wrong. Will he start drinking more now that it’s out of the closet?

  Damn! Shit! Damn!

  Right then my phone dings with a text.

  It’s from Kelsey. Her message is short and to the point. What the fuck? Are you okay?

  Closing my eyes, I lean back on the headrest. Less than two hours ago, witnessing Abby’s crossing I felt powerful, capable, ready to take on whatever problem life and even death threw at me. Now I’m back to feeling as if I’m faking it.

  • • •

  “I would go with the beige sweater,” Kelsey says.

  I’m standing in the middle of my room, holding out two different tops.

  She came over this morning to help me pick out my outfit for my date with Jacob tonight. She came over yesterday to get the story about the accident and me almost becoming a serial rapist’s next victim. Which meant I had to lie to her too.

  Added to all that, Dad’s client, the convict, showed up while I was white-lying it to my best friend and pretty much securing my place in hell. I never looked at the spirit directly, but he never looked away from me. He knows . . . somehow, he knows I can see him. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to confront him.

  But later is just fine with me. First let me get over nearly being raped and murdered.

  Kelsey stands up from my bed and holds the sweater up to me. “You look . . . kind of angelic, kind of otherworldly. Spooky sexy. Something about how your hair color matches it.”

  I make a face at her. “Spooky sexy?”

  She laughs.

  “And I’m not angelic,” I insist. With as many lies as I’ve told lately, I’m for certain hell-bound.

  “Hey, the pizza’s here,” Dad calls up from the bottom of the stairs. He’s been kind of distant and yet . . . clingy.

  He’s been extra quiet, but has hugged me more yesterday and today than he’s hugged me in two years. I can’t even say I’m mad at him, I’m more just worried sick. So far, he hasn’t drunk in front of me, and the one time I tried to bring the subject up again, he shut it down. Fast.

  “We’ll be right down,” I say.

  I toss the sweater on my desk. When I do, my drawing pad falls open on the floor. Kelsey stares down at the picture I drew. Hayden’s image stares back.

  “Wow. You said you liked art, but I didn’t know you rocked at it. That’s fantastic.” She picks the pad up. Her brows pinch together and her baffled gaze shifts to me.

  “Why would you draw you a picture of Carter?”

  I stare at her. “What? Who?” I suddenly remember who Carter, Jacob’s friend. “That’s not him. It’s . . . just some guy I dreamed up.”

  She shakes her head. “Then you dreamed up Carter, because . . . that’s him.”

  My chest swells with the realization of what this might mean. “No.” I sit down at my desk, my hands are shaking, but I have to know. I look over my shoulder at Kelsey. “What’s his full name?”

  “It’s Carter . . . ? Wait. Carter is his last name. People just called him by his last name.”

  “What’s his first name?” I almost sound impatient. I am impatient. Because if Hayden is really Carter then . . . he’s not dead. And bam, I remember how different he was from the other ghosts. I remember that I’ve been pushing him to cross over when what he needs to do is fight. Fight for his life.

  “I don’t remember his name,” Kelsey says. “I think it starts with an H.”

  Hayden. Chills race down my back. Tears fill my eyes. It’s Hayden. I know it’s Hayden. But why did he lie about his last name? I look back at Kelsey. “What happened to Carter?”

  “A car accident,” she answers.

  At least he didn’t lie about that.

  Oh, shit! It suddenly makes sense. He didn’t attach himself to me through Dad, but through Jacob. I remember first sensing him the night I walked home from Kelsey’s after putting the letter in her mailbox. I realize this is also the reason he kept telling me that Jacob was a good guy.

  I Google Hayden Carter and when his picture appears on the screen, I gasp.

  “No,” I say out loud.

  “No, what?” Kelsey asks.

  I had forgotten she was
there. I blink away my tears.

  “Nothing.” I exit the screen. Take one deep breath and swallow a lump of panic. “I bet I saw his picture somewhere and just drew it.” I stand up, but I have to grab the back of the chair because my knees are jelly.

  “Yeah,” she says, but she’s staring at me all weird like.

  And I know she knows I’m lying. She’s going to figure out just how big of a freak I am. But at this moment, right now, I don’t even care. What I care about is Hayden. What I care about is figuring out what I’m going to do.

  I have to go to him. Tell him not to cross over. Tell him to try to live. Once again, I’ve screwed up this whole ghost stuff. But I have to fix this. I have to.

  I suddenly realize I’m just standing there, existing in my head, while Kelsey is watching me.

  “You’re freaking me out again,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say and suddenly I’m angry, not at her but at Hayden for lying to me. I take a deep breath and meet her gaze. “I’m a freak. I admit it. I’m sorry. I can’t change it.” I feel the tears rolling down my eyes.

  “Hey,” she says and hugs me. “It’s okay. I still like you even if you are a freak.”

  “Thanks.” I pull back and swipe my tears off my cheeks. But deep down I know it’s not okay. And it won’t be until I talk to Hayden. I can’t have his death on my hands. I can’t be the reason he gives up and dies. I’m supposed to help the dead, not encourage the living to die.

  “Pizza’s getting cold,” Dad calls out again.

  I run my fingers through my hair and give myself a mental kick in the ass. I have to keep my shit together in front of Kelsey and Dad. And Jacob. Because tonight, I have a date with him.

  Sometimes my life is a mixed bag of good, bad, and ugly. Sometimes I’ve never felt more alive. Sometimes I feel as if I have one foot in the grave.

  Thank you for joining me on this new journey with The Mortician’s Daughter series.

  I hope you’ll leave a review for One Foot in the Grave

  on Smashwords, and also sign up for my newsletter at www.cchunterbooks.com,

  so you can stay tuned for more books in this series!

  Mortician’s Daughter Series

  Excerpt from This Heart of Mine

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at my next release,

  This Heart of Mine,

  coming in hardcover from Wednesday Books on February 27, 2018,

  and available now for pre-order!

  May 13th

  “It’s over, Eric. Accept it. Let it go, would you?” The words echo from a cell phone into the dark night.

  Eric Kenner sits at the patio table in his backyard, listening over and over again to Cassie’s voicemail. Listening to the pool’s pump vibrate. Listening to the pain vibrate in his chest.

  “I can’t let it go.” Pain tumbles out of him. It is so damn wrong. He can’t accept it.

  Glancing back, he sees the light in his mom’s bedroom go off. It’s barely eight. She probably took another Xanax. His mom can’t accept things either.

  Why did life have to be so damn hard? Was he cursed?

  He hits replay on his phone. Hoping to hear a crack in Cassie’s voice, something that tells him she doesn’t mean it. There’s no crack in her voice, just the one in his heart.

  He bolts up, sending the patio chair crashing into the concrete. Snatching the piece of furniture, he hurls it into the pool. The chair floats on top of the water. While he feels as if he’s sinking, drowning.

  He swings around and shoots inside. Moving through the kitchen, then the living room, he stops in front of the forgotten space that was his father’s study.

  His dad would have known what to do.

  Eric walks in. The door clicking shut shatters the silence. The room smells dusty, musty, like old books. The streetlight from the front yard spills silver light through the window. The beige walls look aged. The space feels lonely and abandoned.

  The huge clock on the wall no longer moves. In here, time has stopped—just like his dad’s life.

  Eric’s gaze lands on the flag, the one the military handed him at his father’s funeral. The thing sits on the worn leather sofa, still folded, as if waiting for someone to put it away.

  They called his dad a hero—as if remembering him that way would make his death easier. It hasn’t.

  It would have been his dad’s last mission. The day he left, he’d doled out promises—camping trips, redoing the engine of the old Mustang in the garage. Promises that died with him.

  Moving behind the mahogany desk, Eric drops into his dad’s chair. It creaks as if complaining he isn’t the man his dad was. Leaning forward, Eric opens the top drawer.

  Swallowing a lump that feels like a piece of his broken heart, his eyes zoom in on one item. He reaches in and pulls it out. It’s heavy and cold against his palm.

  He stares at the gun. Maybe he does know how to fix this.

  If he can find the courage.

  1

  One month earlier

  April 13th

  “You lucky bitch!” I drop back down on my pink bedspread, phone to ear, knowing Brandy is dancing on cloud nine and I’m dancing with her. I glance at the door to make sure Mom isn’t hovering and about to freak over my language. Again.

  She isn’t there.

  Lately, I can’t seem to control what comes out of my mouth. Mom blames it on too much daytime who’s-the-baby-daddy television. She could be right. But hey, a girl’s gotta have some fun.

  “Where’s he taking you?” I ask.

  “Pablo’s Pizza.” Brandy’s tone lost the oh-God shriek quality. “Why . . . why don’t you come with us?”

  “On your date? Are you freaking nuts?”

  “You go to the doctor’s office, you could—”

  “No. That’s hell no!” I even hate going to the doctor’s office. If people stare long enough they see the tube. But this isn’t even about me. “I’d die before I get between you—”

  “Don’t say that!” Brandy’s emotional reprimand rings too loud. Too painful.

  “It’s just a figure of speech,” I say, but in so many ways it’s not. I’m dying. I’ve accepted that. The people in my life haven’t. So, for them, I pretend. Or try to.

  “But if you—”

  “Stop. I’m not going.”

  There’s a gulp of silence. That’s when I realize my “lucky bitch” comment brought on the pity invite. Brandy’s worried I’m jealous. And okay, maybe I am, a little. But my grandmother used to say it was okay to see someone in a beautiful red dress and think, I want a dress like hers. But it wasn’t okay to think, I want a dress like hers and I want her to have a wart on her nose.

  I don’t wish Brandy warts. She’s had the hots for Brian for years. She deserves Brian.

  Do I deserve something besides the lousy card fate dealt to me? Hell yeah. But what am I going to do? Cry? I tried that. I’ve moved on.

  Now I’ve got my bucket list. And my books.

  The books are part of my bucket list. I want to read a hundred. At least a hundred. I started counting after I got out of the hospital the first time I survived an infection from my artificial heart. I’m at book twenty-eight now. I won’t mention how many of them were romance novels.

  “Leah,” Brandy starts in again.

  The chime of the doorbell has me glancing at the pink clock on my bedside table.

  It’s study time. Algebra. I hate it. But I kind of like hating it. Because I hated it before I got sick. Hating the same things as before makes me feel more like the old me.

  “Gotta go. Ms. Strong is here.” I bounce my heels on the bed. The beaks on my Donald Duck slippers bob up and down. Lately, I’ve been into cartoon-character slippers. They make my feet look happy. Mom’s bought me three pairs: Mickey, Donald, and Dumbo.

  “But—” Brandy tries again.

  “No. But you’re gonna tell me everything. All the sexy details. How good he kisses. How good he smells. How many times you c
atch him staring at your boobs.”

  Yep, I’m jealous all right. But I’m not a heartless bitch. Well, maybe I am. Heartless, really heartless, but not so much a bitch. I carry an artificial heart around in a backpack. It’s keeping me alive.

  “I always tell you everything,” Brandy says.

  No, but you used to. I stare up at my whirling polka-dot ceiling fan. Even Brandy’s walking on eggshells, scared she’ll say something to remind me that I got a raw deal, something that will make me feel sorry for myself. I’m done doing that. But I hate hearing that crunch as people tiptoe around the truth.

  “Leah.” Mom calls me.

  “Gotta go.” I hang up, grab my heart, and get ready to face algebra.

  I really hate it, but it’s number one on my bucket list—my last hurrah. Well, not algebra, but graduating high school. And I don’t want a diploma handed to me. I want to earn it.

  I spot Mom standing in the entrance of the dining room turned study. She’s rubbing her palms over her hips. A nervous habit, though I have no idea what’s got her jittery now. I survived the last infection and the one before that. She hears my footsteps, looks at me. Her brow puckers—another sign of serious mama fret.

  I stop. Why’s she so nervous? “What?”

  “Ms. Strong couldn’t make it.” She rushes off faster than her hurried words.

  I hear someone shuffling in the dining room. I’m leery. Hesitant. I move in. My Donald Duck slippers skid to a quick stop when I see the dark-haired boy at the table.

  “Shit.” I suck my lips into my mouth in hopes I didn’t say it loud enough for him to hear.

  He grins. He heard me. That smile is as good as the ones I read about in romance novels. Smiles described as crooked, mind-stopping, or coming with a melt-me-now quality. I swear my artificial heart skips two beats.

  He’s one of the Kenner twins, either Eric or Matt, the two hottest boys in school. I used to be able to tell them apart, but now I’m not sure of anything. If I combed my hair today. If I brushed my teeth. If I have on a bra?