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I close my eyes and drown out his voice with memories of Mom. Sitting in her lap at Granny’s kitchen table while they chatted about the neighbors and my uncles and aunts, drinking coffee and eating cake. Teaching me how to peel an apple in one long strand. How to pat the kitten she gave me for my fourth birthday.“Softly, sweetheart. It’s only small. Like this.”
She was the gentlest person, and she taught me how to be gentle and move gracefully through the world. Where is the gentleness and grace in my life now?
I open my eyes and turn to gaze at the casket, and a pair of eyes catch mine across the aisle.
My stomach spasms.
My fists clench on my black dress and I scream silently in the back of my throat, lips tightly closed.
He came here.
Here.
Howdarehe.
His lips curve into a smile and he dips his head in greeting, like this is a social event and not my mother’s funeral. I hold his gaze, my stomach churning. I don’t know if he can see my face through the black veil but I have to be strong even if I know I’m not. Because Mom was strong at the end, wasn’t she? She stood up to those monsters all by herself.
The service ends and we all get to our feet. The veil protects me fromhim, and the intrusion of the other mourners. These people didn’t know Mom, and they don’t know what she sacrificed for me.
Out by the graveside, I watch them weep for her and console my father, and all the whilehispresence is prickling the back of my neck.
The wake is at our home, and I stand in a corner while waiters in white shirts and black bowties offer silver trays of sandwiches to the hundreds of people that are filling the rooms that Mom so lovingly decorated. They talk about politics and the upcoming election, interest rates and new hotel developments. None of these people are here for Mom. They’re here to rub shoulders with Dad and his friends and gossip with each other.
A folded copy of theColdlake Tribuneis laying on a side table and I flip it over, wondering what’s being said publicly about Mom’s murder. It’s today’s newspaper and the front page is dedicated to “The town’s beloved mayoress.” Her face smiles out at me, eyes filled with kindness.
My throat burns.
So beloved, that she ended up dead in a swimming pool with her throat slit.
I take a shuddering breath and quickly move my gaze elsewhere, and it catches on a paragraph of text accompanying the image.
…mayoress’ death potentially linked to the Black Orchid Murders eight years ago.
I frown. The Black Orchid Murders. Haven’t I heard about those? Teenage girls and young women who were brutally killed. I was a child and I don’t remember it well, but I think one or more of the women had a black flower shoved down her throat. No one knows who did it. So that’s how Dad’s going to cover up Mom’s murder: pin it on some unknown psychopath and let the case go cold.
I scan the rest of the front page and see my father’s name.
Mayor Romano has vowed to begin his reelection campaign against City Hall hopeful Christian Galloway in six months’ time. “It’s what my wife would have wanted,” he stated at a press conference last night. “She loved Coldlake. She died for Coldlake. I will prevail.”
“Read me my horoscope, Chiara.”
My stomach lurches.
I whirl around at the sound of a deep, mocking voice. He’s standing close. So close that I can see the individual shards of blue and green in his eyes, even through the lace of my veil. I haven’t wanted to take it off. I don’t think I’ll ever want to take it off.
“I’m a Sagittarius. November 29th. Do you think the stars say we’re compatible?” He smiles, showing a row of strong white teeth.
I look down and realize I’m still gripping the newspaper in my hands, and I throw it aside. When I try to step past him, he grabs my arm.
“I haven’t seen my pretty bride’s face in weeks.” He grasps the edge of the veil and draws it slowly back. I feel like he’s stripping me naked. The table is pressing against my back and I can’t move away from him, and then I’m looking up at him with nothing between us.
“Ah, there you are,” says Salvatore Fiore, a victorious glint in his smile.
“Pleased with yourself because you won?” I ask him.
Salvatore smiles wider and cups my face in his hands. The next thing I know his mouth is descending toward mine, attempting to claim another kiss that I don’t want to give him. I turn my face away sharply.
“This is my mother’s funeral. Have some respect.”
