I got a better look at the couple as they got out of the car. The man’s skin was pale and wrinkled like a paper bag on its final reuse, his wispy hair whiter than virgin snow. His movements were slow and focused, one misstep away from hip-replacement surgery, although he didn’t use a cane or walker. He had to be at least a hundred years old.
The woman, hair also white, was younger. I placed her at maybe seventy-five, though wealthy women tended to age betterthan those who couldn’t afford facelifts and pricey skincare products. Her boney frame sparkled with diamond, ruby, and emerald jewelry, most Art Deco in style. Wrists, fingers, neck, and earlobes twinkling, she was like a walking Christmas tree. I hoped she didn’t parade around downtown like that. Talk about a mugging waiting to happen.
The couple were, unsurprisingly, also impeccably dressed. The woman wore a tan felt coat with fur trim, opened to reveal a black wool dress underneath. The man wore a tailored navy three-piece suit, polished opal cufflinks subtly flashing out from his sleeves. Had I gone to their home, I’d no doubt find other lavish trappings of the wealthy like designer house slippers, silk robes, and monogrammed towels.
I relaxed some as it dawned on me that they obviously weren’t vampires, with it being daytime. Unless they pulled a gun on me, they were physically harmless. I could run at my slowest, side-cramping, knees-aching pace andstillget away by miles.
Had the sun been down, I wouldn’t have been so trusting. It didn’t matter how old a vampire looked. They were lethal, white hair and all.
“Can I help you?” I asked, inwardly cringing at the way I’d spoken, like I was addressing children. Before she’d passed away, my grandmother had criticized how a lot of young people patronized the elderly, often unintentionally, acting as if they were feebleminded instead of older and wiser.
The couple exchanged a look, as if deciding who would speak first. The woman stepped forward. “Olivia Taylor?”
My iced coffee was cold in my grip, freezing my fingers stiff. I switched hands and the ice shifted in the cup. I still had a fair amount of coffee left, and what a pity it would be if I had to cast my cup aside, should they launch an attack. They were old, frail, and human, but something about the way they were looking atme was unsettling. Perhaps they’d been sent by Serena, though it would be an odd choice of assassins.
“What’s this about?”
The couple exchanged another look.
“YouareOlivia Taylor, aren’t you?” the man sniped, as if I was trying to pull a fast one on them. His irritation was clear.My years left on this planet are limited, so I don’t have time for this horseshit.
“I am,” I said slowly. Then, with my own irritation, “What can I help you with?”
The woman smiled shyly. “We’re wondering if we could come inside and talk to you?”
“Inside?” I turned around and gaped at Robert’s house. Why, I had no idea—it wasn’t like I didn’t know it was there. “Talk to me about what?”
The man stepped forward. “We—my wife and I—have decided it’s time we finally meet.”
“Who are you?”
“You don’t recognize us?” the woman asked. She turned her face side-to-side, as if maybe I hadn’t gotten a close enough look at her.
“Should I?”
The man said, “We assumed you would, since we’re your great-grandparents.”
I had no doubt that I looked like a fish as I stood there gaping at them with my mouth opening and closing.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you, dear,” the woman beamed, her boney hand curling over my forearm. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying the money we put into your bank account.”
16
I’d decided long ago that I didn’t like my great-grandparents.
Still, that didn’t mean I had to be rude.
Not feeling up to a confrontation in the driveway, I’d allowed my two uninvited guests to come inside. I felt like a traitor for being hospitable after all the unforgivable things they’d done to Tilly. However, as I was discovering, it was a hell of a lot easier to despise someone from afar as opposed to when they’re standing right in front of you.
I still didn’t know what they wanted from me. They sat ramrod straight on the living room sofa, the cups of tea I’d fetched for them steaming on the coffee table, untouched. They’d turned their noses up at the cookies I’d also set out, probably deeming crumbs uncivilized.
“I was under the impression you’d passed away,” I said, which wasn’t entirely true. Though I’d had no official confirmation, they’d been dead tome—and my mother and grandmother, for that matter—for years.
The woman’s smile was brittle. “We thought you might be.”
Do you even care?I wanted to ask. From what I’d been told by Tilly, what concerned these snobs most was their reputation. The narrative was complicated, but I knew it well. When Tilly was in high school, she’d gotten pregnant by a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. In response, the delightful pieces of work sitting before me had given her only two choices: go away to a “girls retreat” and give the illegitimate child, my mother, up for adoption, or be disowned by the family forever. Tilly chose the latter.
As the oldest story in the world goes, the father skipped town once he caught wind of the pregnancy. Tilly, a teenaged debutant with no real-life experience, was suddenly and completely on her own. She dropped out of high school and left my great-grandparents’ mansion in New York in the dead of winter with little more than a suitcase of personal belongings and a small amount of savings. She headed to Florida, the warmest place she could think of.
