Could the person who’d written the obituary have known that her uncle hadn’t really died? How could she find out who wrote it?
She took the paper from Kylie’s hands and reread it herself. Something else bothered her, too. But she couldn’t put her finger on it.
Emotion hitting all sides of her heart, she remembered considering faking her own death, and right then she knew she could never do it. It might hurt like hell letting them believe the worst of her, to feel as if she disappointed them at every turn, but Holiday was right. Death was final—be it a faked death or real. She’d take this pain to the one of knowing she’d never see them again.
Glancing down at the paper, she reread the words, waiting for that something that bothered her to become known.
Kylie took a sip of diet soda. “You need to ask Derek to see if he can find anything out on the aunt you didn’t know about.”
Della nodded and went back to reading. Her eyes landed on the name of the funeral home. Rosemount It listed a Houston address. She wasn’t positive, but she thought her dad had lived way over on the opposite side of the city. Why would her dad’s family choose a funeral home so far from where they lived?
Rosemount Funeral Home. Her gaze went back to the name and a lightbulb came on. “That’s it,” she said.
“What’s it?” Miranda asked.
“Rosemount Funeral Home was where my cousin Chan’s memorial service was held. His fake memorial service. That funeral home must work with the vampires who do this.” Della inhaled and something akin to excitement filled her chest. “My uncle is alive. He faked his own death just like Chan did.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Miranda said.
Della closed her eyes. As much as she wanted to deny it, she couldn’t. She needed proof.
“Then who’s the ghost?” Kylie asked.
Della shrugged. “Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe it’s not here for me, but for you. Or maybe it’s just a random dead person hanging out.”
Kylie lifted her left shoulder in a nonconvinced shrug. “I don’t think so.”
Miranda leaned an elbow on the table. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. If your cousin used the same funeral home as your uncle, how did he know about it? Did he just stumble across it? Do vampires set up their own services? You’d think the family would do it. But maybe vampires somehow have it set up.”
“I don’t know.” Della’s mind rushed to where she could go to get this info. She couldn’t ask Burnett or Holiday without them thinking she wanted to fake her own death. Or without them asking questions. And none of the vampires here had faked their own deaths. Only a few had been turned as a teen; most of them here had been born with the live virus—meaning both their parents were vampires at the time they were conceived.
Kylie sat staring at Miranda. “But that’s a good question.” Kylie pulled the paper over and studied it. “You know, if Chan somehow arranged it and had the memorial service set up, then maybe he knows your uncle? Hey, wait!” Kylie’s eyes lit up as if she’d just come to some conclusion. “If Chan was the one who caused you to be turned, then maybe your uncle is the one who turned Chan. That could be how he knew about the funeral home.”
“Chan didn’t mean to turn me,” Della said. “I had an open wound and—”
“I know,” Kylie said, “but maybe the same thing happened to Chan and your uncle.”
Everything Kylie and Miranda said stirred inside Della’s head, causing a whirlwind of thoughts that twisted into questions. And there was only one person who could answer them, if he’d take her darn call. She snagged her cell from her pocket and dialed Chan.
Chapter Twelve
Chan’s phone rang. And rang. Then it went to voicemail. “Call me, damn it!” Della muttered; then she set the phone down. Frustration building inside her, she picked up her soda can, drank the last sip, then crunched the thing in her hand and wadded it up into a small aluminum ball.
Was Chan mad because she hadn’t returned his call last week? No, he’d said it wasn’t important.
“Wow!” Miranda said, staring at Della’s new version of a stress ball. “That looks badass!”
Della didn’t care how it looked. “I want answers.”
“Then let’s get them,” Kylie said. “I’ve got an idea. My mom’s been begging me to bring you two home with me for a weekend. The funeral home is only about ten miles from my house. If we go there and see it’s run by supernaturals, then chances are you’re right. Plus, it’ll just be fun to have you guys hang out at my old house. Before my mom sells it.”
Hope started filling Della’s chest. “If they’re supernaturals, I’m having a little powwow with the owner.”
Kylie looked unsure. “Remember Holiday’s rule. No stupid risks.”
Della got an idea. “Let’s look it up online.” She stood and went to the computer desk on the other side of the kitchen. The funeral home came right up. There was even a “meet the owner” page. A photo of a Tomas Ayala, a Hispanic man who looked older than dirt, appeared.
“Okay, come take a peek at this guy.” Della looked back at her two friends still sitting at the table. “You gonna tell me he’s a risk? He’s an old geezer.”
“Okay,” Kylie said. “Now the question is, do you think your parents would let you come to my house?”
“Mine would,” Miranda answered.
Della squeezed the aluminum ball down to a smaller, tighter orb. “I don’t know if my mom will agree to it,” Della said. “Maybe if I beg.”
“You beg?” Miranda mouthed off. “I’d love to witness that.”
Della growled at the witch then glanced back at Kylie. “I’ll talk to my mom tomorrow.”
“Good,” Kylie said.
Good? Not really. Della hated the idea of begging. She hated the idea of waiting until the weekend to get answers, but she didn’t have a choice. At least she now had a plan.
Holiday showed up at the cabin around six that evening and brought Della a glass of blood and some chicken-and-stars soup. Tray in hand, the camp leader ushered her back to bed. Thank goodness, Della had cleaned up the pillow guts.
Della grumbled about the in-bed rule, but she really hadn’t meant to. The sound came from her stomach … her completely empty stomach. She hadn’t realized she’d been starving until she smelled the blood. Leaning against three pillows, she enjoyed every sip, but at one point had to push the thought of the murder scene from her mind.