Crimson Death (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #25)(64)

Especially when he was

throwing down with that Charlotte girl.

Monday, 3:09 PM

Hands off!! Do you think I should

go for it?

Monday, 3:09 PM

Will it make you happy?

Monday, 3:10 PM

I don’t know, Ollie, I’m not a damn

psychic! But it might.



I couldn’t help but laugh at this. What a way to go through life. Trying out crazy things on the off chance that they might make you happy. It totally went against my personal philosophy of overanalyzing everything and only taking risks when there was a 5 percent or less chance of failure. But maybe Lara’s take had merit. I messaged her back while hopping out of the car.

Monday, 3:10 PM

Good enough for me. Hell

yeah you should go for it.

Have as much fun as you can

until it’s not fun anymore. And

if that never happens, even

better.

Monday, 3:11 PM

Hah. I always have as much fun as I

can. What’s the point otherwise?



I cracked a grin at her reply as I pushed open the front door with my hip, my backpack sliding down my shoulder. I jumped to correct it, steadied myself, and paused to find my parents sitting in the living room.

They both should’ve been at work.

I let my backpack slip all the way down my arm, and I dropped it on the floor by the door. I wanted to walk right back outside, climb into my car, and drive back in time. Because I knew with horrible certainty that I wasn’t ready for whatever my parents were going to say next.

But I had to go into the room. I shuffled to the couch and sat down heavily.

Silence.

I spoke first, because my parents kept looking at each other to check who should break it to me. Like I needed anything broken to me. Like I still didn’t know what was coming.

“When did it happen?” I asked.

Amazingly, they looked relieved. At least neither of them had to say it out loud, I guess.

“Around lunchtime,” Dad said.

Oh. Lunchtime. She’d been dead for several hours. And I hadn’t even noticed the cataclysmic shift. I would’ve thought I’d notice. Somehow.

“She had a pulmonary embolism. Really, we’re lucky it happened like this,” Mom said in a tight voice. “It, ah, it was fast. And, we, um, we were told her condition was going downhill. And that she would be in a lot of pain, soon. A lot of pain, Ollie. And she didn’t want to be in pain like that. No one does. That’s no way to spend the last few weeks you ever get. And she got to spend her last few weeks with us, walking around, eating, laughing.”

I stared at the ground.

“A lot of people in her situation end up with a blocked intestine. All they can do in their last weeks is lie in bed and wet their lips. That’s such a horrible way to go. We’re so lucky Linda didn’t have to go through that, sweetie.”

Was she trying to comfort me? Because the tone of her voice was so pleading, it seemed more like she wanted me to tell her that yes, all of that was true, and this definitely wasn’t the worst day any of us had ever lived through.

I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Okay.”

We sat in silence. I felt like we should be hugging each other, or sobbing or something, but I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t feel anything except stunned. What were we supposed to do now? Seriously, what? Did we go around to Uncle Roy’s and comfort him? He probably didn’t want us there right now. Not just yet. So, what, did we talk about our favorite memories of Aunt Linda? Oh, God, no, memories, all we had were memories now. That didn’t feel real yet, though. It was like it was happening to someone else.

Okay, so, then, what? Did we just … turn on the TV? Do the dishes? Take showers? Did I do my homework? None of it felt right.

I waited for my parents to direct the next steps.

But maybe they didn’t know what to do now, either.

It was too hard to look at my parents’ stricken faces, so I picked at a hangnail instead. Was it bad that I didn’t feel sad? Did that mean there was something wrong with me?

Maybe I was like the main character from Dexter. Like, maybe I was immune to death and pain, and I could theoretically spend the rest of my life killing people who I thought objectively deserved to die, and I’d never be even a little damaged by any of it.

Mom stood up first. “I’m going to call Grandma and Grandpa again,” she said.

By that, she meant Dad’s parents. Her parents had passed away when I was little. They’d had Mom when they were super old, like, almost forty.

Which meant that out of her whole family, Mom was the only one left now.

Mom pulled down her blouse and left the room. She was still wearing her work outfit. Usually when you think of grieving people, they’re in their pajamas, and maybe a dressing gown, and their faces are red and blotchy. Mom’s face was blotchy, but outside of that, she could run a board meeting now and she wouldn’t seem out of place.

Dad, too. Even more so, because it didn’t look like he’d been crying, either. No red spots in sight.

“Is there anything nice you’d like for dinner?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“We won’t be cooking tonight, but you can pick. We’ll get anything you want. Takeout,” he added as an afterthought.