Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

A vase?

It takes me a second to realize the small voice doesn't belong to my memories. A young girl stares at me as if she'd been standing in front of me for a long while. Her black slacks and white button-down shirt—the latter of which is a size too big—make her look like a waiter-in-training. The worn, stuffed puppy she clings to and her hollow eyes make her look like a reflection of my insides.

"My dad says my mom lives in heaven now, but we can visit her here," the girl says. "They put her in a vase."

I don't have much experience with children other than once having been one. This one might be five or six. She keeps focused on me like I have some kind of answer for her.

"I don't like talkin' sometimes, either, when my heart feels broke," she says as she sits beside me and mimics my pose by hugging her dog against her. "Did you bring snacks?"

"Oh, um…" I glance at the backpack clutched in my arms. "Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head in denial.

"Are you," I glance around, "lost?"

She again shakes her head.

The idea of ghosts in a graveyard is nothing new, neither are mental breakdowns, and I find myself poking her arm.

"Why'd you do that?" She watches my finger withdraw.

"To see if you are really here." My psyche is stretched too thin to think of a good lie.

"Oh." She accepts the answer. "I don't like it here."

"Me either," I say.

"Your necklace is shiny. Can I?—"

"Diana!" The panicked shout breaks into the tranquility of the hiding place.

The girl doesn't stand, so I don't either. I feel a strange kinship with her, sensing she might be as shattered as me.

"Diana!" A man appears from around a corner. His athletic arms swing wide in his frantic state, and he looks desperate. He wears the subdued uniform required of such a place—a suit jacket and black slacks. He must have pulled at his dark blue tie because it hangs cockeyed around his neck like he wants to escape this place as badly as I do.

I'm too mind-numb to call out, so I merely watch his panic like a play. A small voice whispers that this makes me an asshole. I don't listen. Thankfully, the girl next to me doesn't have the same problem.

"Dad," Diana says, her voice calm. "I'm here."

His striking light brown eyes find us at the exact moment she says the words.

The man rushes toward us, relief warring with his heightened state. He barely seems to register me as he lifts the girl into a bear hug. "Don't run off like that. You know better. I said you could look at the fountain if you stayed where I can see you."

The panic is still in him, rippling through his jerky movements. He holds Diana against him, and she submits to his affection, resting her head easily on his shoulder as he sways back and forth. The scene still looks like it comes from a movie, so I watch. My father never held me like that, and I can't recall a time he ever came looking for me.

The man's longer brown hair is slicked back in an attempt to subjugate the waves, but a few gelled pieces have broken free. Handsome men are plenty in the world, and he can count himself amongst their numbers. I like that he looks normal—not rich, not prepped for an internet following, not ready for reporters. There is a vitality to him that radiates. He knows a hard day's work, and I can easily see him at a local pub drinking a beer and watching a football game instead of some fancy uptown bar. He has strong hands, too, blue-collar hands, so he's not afraid of hard work. But those hands are gentle with his daughter, so he's not afraid of love either. I always feel I can tell a lot about a man by his hands.

After some time, Diana kicks her feet to indicate she's ready to be put down. He obliges with a deep breath. I watch, wondering where the scene will take them next. I expect them to leave, to walk out of my life, so when he looks at me expectantly with his sexy brown eyes, I'm momentarily stunned. I watch for changes within their depths that would hint at him being something more than human. They don't change, except for how they catch the light.

"This is my friend," Diana introduces me. "She has a sad heart, too."

"Thank you," he says softly.

The words confuse me.

"For looking after her," he explains.

I nod, though I hardly deserve the recognition.

"I'm Paul." He holds out a hand for me to take. "Cannon."

"Oh, um." I slide the backpack off my lap and stand. I place my chilled hand in his warm one. A tiny shiver rolls up my arm at the contact. "I'm…"

It takes me a moment to finish the thought.

"I'm, ah, Tamara. Tamara Devine," I say. Only seconds later does it occur to me that maybe I shouldn't have used my real name. I apparently suck at being on the run from the law.

This can't be my life. I have no clue what I'm doing. All I know is that I don't want him to let go of me, so I hold his hand a little too long as if silently begging him not to leave me alone.

"You're shaking," he observes as he places a second warm hand around mine. The electricity of his touch works itself into me. They say funerals are like strange aphrodisiacs, but until this moment, I never believed it to be true. "You're freezing."

He releases my hand, and I let it hang awkwardly between us. My reactions seem to be ticking seconds past what is polite.

"Here." Like a gentleman, he shrugs out of his suit jacket, but there is nothing refined about the muscles now visible through his dress shirt. He whisks the jacket over my shoulders as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

The transferred warmth from his body feels like a hug, and I pull the jacket closed around my torso. I never realized how intimate such an act could feel. The jacket smells of him—light cologne or scented soap. I can't be sure which, but I find myself breathing deeper.

I know I should speak, but I don't want to leave this moment. Paul's eyes are kind, and they smile at me.

I should be standing with Conrad at the mausoleum.

No. I should be home listening to my mother bitch about something that annoyed her over family dinner while Anthony texts on his phone under the table, and my father gets up with a half-baked excuse to leave early.

"Are you…?" He hesitates on the question as if contemplating whether it would be rude to finish.

"I'm sorry about your wife," I say. My gaze goes to his hands, but I don't see a ring. That doesn't mean anything. People who work with their hands often take their rings off.

It occurs to me that he doesn't appear heartbroken. His eyes are sad, yes, but not inconsolable. Instead, he looks at his daughter as if all his energies are focused in her direction. I wonder at the reaction.

"Thank you." The words are abrupt, as is his nod.

"Who did you put in a vase?" Diana asks.

"It's called an urn," Paul corrects before saying to me, "I'm sorry. She's curious by nature. It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."

I look in the direction of the mausoleum, but I can't see past the fountain. As strange as it sounds, I miss the companionship of the funeral. I don't want to be alone.

"We can leave you be." Paul tries to usher his daughter away. "Thanks again for keeping an eye on her."

"I lost my ride." I don't know why I say it, except he seems like the type not to leave a damsel in distress. "They left without me."

"Oh? Can we give you a lift somewhere?" he offers, proving me right.

"I don't want to intrude." It's a lie. I do want to intrude. I want to go with them. It feels desperate and dumb, but I can't help it. Diana is staring at me with her lost eyes, and Paul is talking to me as if I'm normal like them. It's a relief not to be faced with magical beings and their constant judgmental examinations.

"No intrusion. Do you need to get to a wake?" He gives a slight nod, indicating that I should follow.

I think of the house with its servants and trays of food waiting. And booze. So much booze. All anyone will be talking about is the fire and, evidently, how I started it.

Then, there is the police waiting to take me into custody.

I feel tears burning their way into my eyes, threatening to spill over. "No."

"Dad," Diana says with an exasperated sigh. "She's already awake."

He looks as if he's about to explain but then doesn't.

"Where should we drop you?" he asks.

I don't even know.

I go to the backpack and unzip the front pocket. Digging around, I find a wad of cash that Conrad had shoved next to a piece of torn yellow paper with an address. I hand the paper to Paul. "I have to be here at six."

Again, not the best at running and hiding. Maybe I shouldn't have told him. The buzz of a distant drone catches my attention, and I automatically reach for my hat, only now realizing I must have dropped it somewhere.

He looks at the paper and then glances up at me. "This is in the Bronx."

It's news to me, but I nod. "Is it too far?"

I hope he says no. I don't like riding the subway.

"Are you from here?" He again looks at the paper.

I nod. "Manhattan."

"Just making sure you're familiar with the boroughs. Not all parts of the city are safe for tourists. If this is where I think it is, crime rates have increased in this area."

His concern is sweet.

"I'll be fine." I know Conrad would not have sent me into danger.

Paul studies me momentarily, looks at my backpack, and then at his daughter. "Six?"

I nod.

He comes to stand right in front of me, and I can't help but look up at him. He's the perfect height for me, and it wouldn't take much for me to lift on my toes to meet…

I can't think like this.

Paul reaches into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. "We have time, and I need to feed this little munchkin. What do you say we stop for a bite somewhere first?"

I nod again, relieved that my big escape has come together so nicely. Conrad will talk to the lawyers and get me out of trouble. In the meantime, I'll kill time with Paul. And tonight, Conrad will pick me up in the Bronx and tell me the plan.

All will be well. It has to be. I'm not a criminal. I didn't do what they are claiming I did.

I try very hard to convince myself all that is true.

A fatalistic part of my personality worries that it sounds too easy. I shiver, feeling like I'm being watched. Now is not the time to get cocky. I listen for the drones but don't hear them past the fountain.

"Are you usually this quiet?" he asks with a small smile. Is he flirting? He doesn't step back, and there is a moment when our eyes meet.

The question takes me by surprise. My thoughts have been churning like a chorus of crazy, jumping from topic to topic.

"Dad, come on," Diana pulls at his arm, taking him away from me.

If he is flirting, the sound of his kid breaks any spell. Paul clears his throat and glances at his phone. "We're parked this way."

I find my heels lying on the ground and pull them on. Paul lifts the backpack to carry it for me. I see him pressing his hand against the fabric as if subtly trying to figure out what's inside.

It occurs to me that he's a stranger, and I should be careful. But the warning bells aren't going off in my head when I look at him. I feel like I'm a pretty good judge of character when it comes to bad people. Maybe it's from a lifetime of knowing about vampires, dark magic, and moon howlers. There's an air of superiority that supernaturals get around humans. Paul doesn't have that. Plus, if he were supernatural, he'd have recognized my last name.

I don't pay attention to where we're heading as we enter a building. We pass through a long stone corridor. Diana walks with her head down, placing her feet carefully on the tiles to avoid the cracks. Her stuffed puppy dangles from one hand. Her actions are subdued.

The soft echo of our footsteps disturbs the quiet. Small doors line the wall where cremains are stored. Benches are placed where visitors can sit, but they're all empty. I remind myself that Paul and Diana were here for a funeral, like me, and I start to feel as if I've taken advantage of their kindness.

I watch them both, wondering where their loved one is, but they don't stop moving.

Not loved one. Wife. He buried a wife.

I try to use that thought to suppress any attraction I feel for him. Although, if there is ever a time to make stupid mistakes with a stranger, it's after a funeral. There is a big part of me that is up for spending the afternoon parked somewhere secluded in the back seat of his car. But having a child chaperone puts a damper on that idea.

What is wrong with me? I don't mess with single dads, let alone freshly grieving ones. He's not crying, but then neither am I. It's strange that I'm studying him as the others had studied me at the mausoleum. I tell myself to stop analyzing him.

Grief is a complicated thing, and he has it times two because he has to help his daughter through hers. I don't need to add my needy ass to that mix just because I'm lonely and want to be held by his callused hands and muscular arms.

No one speaks, and I feel like holding my breath until we exit the hallway of resting death. Will I end up in a place like this? Shoved in a stone box in front of empty benches that no one visits? Conrad wasn't wrong when he said we didn't have reservations in the Devine mausoleum.

Paul catches the glass security door as Diana pushes through and holds it open for me. The sounds of the city are more pronounced here, away from the white noise of the fountain.

Paul glances down at my shoes. "I can get the car and come pick you up."

"I'm fine," I say, not wanting to wait alone. In fact, I want to keep moving away from the cemetery.

Diana drops back to walk beside me. "Can I try your shoes?"

"No," Paul answers for me.

Paul pulls his keys out of his pants pocket and lifts them. As he unlocks the doors, the security alarm beeps on an older crossover SUV parallel parked next to the curb. He opens the back door for Diana to climb inside before putting my bag on the floor behind the driver's seat.

"Seatbelt," he says to her before shutting the door.

He turns to me now that we have some privacy. We're surrounded by the sound of engines as cars rumble past.

"She's barely spoken to anyone since her mother died." Paul's handsome eyes meet mine, and he keeps his voice low. "She has nightmares she won't talk about. She's also started carrying around Mr. Plop. She's barely played with it this last year, and now he goes everywhere with her."

I can see that he wants me to understand, so I nod, but the truth holds that I know little about kids.

"I wouldn't normally bring a stranger into our lives. Not now. Never with her. But she's talking to you for some reason."

I can also see he doesn't trust me as much as I assumed.

Paul takes a deep breath. "She's delicate."

I don't know why he's telling me all this.

"She's everything." He glances at the keys in his hand.

"We buried my mother today, too," I tell him. He starts to speak, and I cut him off. "And my father. And my brother."

The words tumble out like I'm ripping off a bandage.

Diana knocks on the window.

There is a helplessness in his eyes, as if he's suddenly added me to his list of concerns. He starts to reach for me, words hanging on his firm lips.

Diana knocks louder. Her little face smooshes against the glass as she stares at us.

"We're both broken," I say. "Maybe she senses it, and that's why she talks to me."

That sounds smarter than I think I am.

Or profoundly stupid.

Traffic again catches my attention, and I see a police cruiser with flashing lights. It's a stark reminder that I need to hide.

"Listen to me. You're going to run." Conrad's words stir in my thoughts and spur me into action.

I walk around the front of the SUV before Paul can change his mind. Opening the passenger side door, I get in.

Seconds later, he joins us in the vehicle. As he starts the engine, he quietly says, "I'm sorry about your family."

"I'm sorry about your wife," I answer.

"She wasn't…" He stops himself and looks at Diana in the rearview mirror. "Let me hear the click."

Diana unbuckles and then buckles her seatbelt. "Tamara, you have to make it click."

I reach for my seatbelt.

"My mom wasn't wearing her seatbelt. That's how she died," Diana says. The words are so matter of fact.

I fumble at the admission but manage to buckle up.

"Is that how your family died?" Diana asks, revealing she'd been able to hear us from inside the vehicle.

I don't want to talk about it.

The police cruiser appears next to my window, and I turn my back on it to look at Diana. My heart is pounding fast, but I try to hide the fear. "No. They were all in a fire."