“I don’t know, for sure. I get the feeling someone attacked them. We moved that night, and never stopped moving.”
“Where is he buried?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember a funeral. She didn’t have his ashes, so I honestly don’t know. I don’t have a death certificate or anything.” I shove away the familiar grief. “I don’t even know his birthday, or the exact date he died. I just remember we’d celebrated my eighth birthday not long before, and it was only Mom and me when I celebrated my ninth.
“And you still move?”
“Yeah. Tucson’s been safest by far. I’ve been here the longest.” My left hand reaches up and touches the ring through my dress. “I’m scared to let my guard down. Every time I do, I end up needing to move again.”
“You said your mother was killed?”
“She was mugged. Fell and sustained a severe head injury. There were two couples who witnessed it and tried to help her, but it happened so fast. They said it was like the guy appeared out of nowhere, tried to grab her, but she screamed and fought. Then she fell and hit her head. The guy disappeared before the bystanders could stop him. They were too worried about Mom to see which way the guy ran, and there wasn’t any video to go by. They never caught the guy.”
I remember standing next to her bed in the ICU, stunned, and the nurse handing me the bag with her possessions in it.
How the ring had been with her things, but not on the chain, like she usually wore it. She normally wore it around her neck. They told me she’d had it on her finger when she was brought in. I’d immediately strung the ring on the necklace and put it on, not wanting to risk losing it.
I remember the way the monitors slowed and eventually flat-lined after they disconnected her life support.
I remember how I felt, a new, unfamiliar rage deep within me, burning so white-hot I was terrified to express any emotions for fear of rampaging through the hospital and killing people just to be put out of my own misery.
“I’m sorry,” he says, snapping my focus back to the present. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen. Three months shy of eighteen. I’m lucky our neighbor let me stay with her, so I didn’t have to go into foster care. From the day I turned eighteen, I’ve been on my own.”
“What about your father’s family?”
“I don’t know anything about them. I’m not even sure if my father’s real name is on my birth certificate.”
“You have uncles, though. Right?”
“Step-uncles. My mom wasn’t close to them and lost contact with them. I don’t even know if they’re alive or where they are. I know her mother, father, and step-father all died when I was still a kid.” I sip my tea. “I’m a family of one. Except for ‘Uncle’ Lucius and ‘Auntie’ Selene. And Garrett and Amber. Found family, for the win.”
“Have you ever tried running one of those DNA kits?”
I shudder. “No. Because maybe it’s best some things stay in the past. If someone did kill him, maybe I don’t want them to have a way to track me.” I point at my hair. “This is my natural hair, but remember how I said don’t get used to it?”
“Yes?”
“It…changes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the other day when we first met, my hair was sort of golden blonde. Then, the morning after I met you, when I woke up, it was…” I point. “This. It’s done this all my life. It might stay the same color for weeks or even months. Then I’ll wake up one morning, and it’ll be a different color. Eyebrows, too. I can’t tell you if the carpet matches the drapes because the floors are bare, if you get my drift.”
Yeah, I see the way his gaze quickly sweeps me, like he’s already picturingthat. I won’t deny it fills me with more than a little heat, that I know I’m having an effect on him.
The long silence grows nearly uncomfortable. “That’s why you wear wigs to work?”
“That’s why I wear wigs to work. Because I don’t want people asking questions about my hair.”
“Why does it do that?”
I wave my fork at him. “Good question. No freaking clue.”
“None?”
“Nope. That’s not all that’s different about me. I can hear and smell and sense things in a way like vampires and shifters can. I probably couldn’t track someone by scent, but I can tell your scent from another vampire’s, from a human, from a shifter. Can hear the difference, too. Vampires sound different because they only breathe for talking, not because they, you know, actuallyneedto. Ditto their pulse.” I decide to toss another nugget out there. “I can even smell arousal.” I let my gaze briefly drop to his lap and force myself not to giggle when his eyes widen, and he clears his throat.
