Page 48 of The Dearly Departed

Gerry.

My eyes narrowed with suspicion beneath the mask’s cover. She meant my father, of course. But I’d only ever known him as Gerald. I had never heard a single person refer to him as Gerry in my life. It felt too casual, like she knew him intimately, and the possible depths of that intimacy ignited a red-hot, jealous, sickening rage in my gut.

“Yes,” I replied, keeping it simple.

She turned from the window to appraise me then. I wished there were more light in this room. I wished her face weren’t heavily shadowed, while the outline of her form was illuminated by the outdoor lighting, reminding me of someone far holier than I ever could be.

“What are you supposed to be?” she asked after a moment, hesitation in her voice.

She couldn’t see it, but I smirked at what I could make out of her confused expression. There was a hint of familiarity in the quirk of her lips and the furrow of her brow, and I found it endearing.

What is your name? I wanted to ask. And how would it sound next to mine?

“You’ve never seen a plague doctor before?”

“Oh, I know what a plague doctor is,” she replied, her voice lilting on the edge of flirtation, “but I thought they wore robes and hats. Not … three-piece suits and … hoods.”

“I couldn’t do much about the hood. It came with the mask,” I explained, holding in a chuckle. “But the suit is personal preference.”

I wished I could see her eyes better as they danced over the place where my face was. My heart skipped several beats; my nerves buzzed with electric life.

Is this how Shawn felt when he met Shelby? I wondered stupidly. Did he feel lucky just to be alive at the same moment as her? Did he relish in sharing the same air?

“What do you like about wearing a suit?” she asked.

I took another step toward her and pulled one hand from my pocket to rest my forearm against the crown molding bordering the window seat, leaning toward her in a casual stance. I could see more of her now, and it took every bit of self-control to keep my lungs steady when all I wanted was to gasp and die at her feet, breathless and robbed of air.

Never before had I desired the attention of a woman, yet it felt like a sin to have been given the opportunity, and all my mind could focus on was how unworthy I was.

“People respect a suit,” I said.

She looked up at me, elongating her neck and tipping her head back. Her chin was pointed toward me, her deep brown eyes nearly black in the absence of light, and something about that look … I could imagine her staring at me just like this moments before I brought my lips to hers to capture her mouth and swallow whatever words she planned to say.

Stop, I scolded myself, but I didn’t listen as I dropped my gaze to her lips and watched intently as she spoke.

“And do you feel respected, Dr. Jekyll?” she asked as her eyes flitted over my frame, now crowding her space.

My lips quirked at the nickname, spoken with an air of flirtation, as I bowed my head and said, “I make sure of it.”

“Hmm …” She slowly nodded before lifting her gaze once again to stare at my masked face. “That must be nice. Maybe I should start wearing a suit too.”

My lips didn’t know whether to smile or frown as I asked, “Do you not feel respected?”

She smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes as she replied, “Sometimes, I can make myself believe that I am, but other times—"

I could sense she was about to tell me something critical, something she didn’t think she should be saying at all, when a door I hadn’t noticed before flew open, interrupting a moment that was all at once strange and curious and serendipitous.

A man younger than me entered the room. He was dressed as Dracula, and it took all of three seconds to put the pieces together.

They were here as a couple, and I was ashamed to admit the disappointment that rested against my shoulders.

“Jesus, there you are,” he said with relief, flicking a switch and flooding the room in light.

And what a room it was.

I couldn’t help myself as I looked around, admiring the ornately carved bookshelves; the ladder that must’ve stood at least ten—no, twelve—feet, capable of reaching the books furthest from the floor; the wooden gargoyles perched high in every corner of the room, guarding the premises with snarling grins; the black iron candelabras standing at each end of a sofa.

If I had the time, I’d browse the leather-bound books housed in this room, and maybe, if I thought I could get away with it, I’d remember to swipe a few and tuck them inside my jacket before I left.