jeans and the black T-shirt he’d thrown on that morning.
So I got to witness firsthand how those metal links got broken. The muscles in his upper arms pumped to the size of grapefruits, and the fabric of the T-shirt tightened around them almost to tearing….
Then the metal gave way with a musical twang, and the chain snaked noisily from the grate, falling to the rain-softened earth with a clunk.
“By all means,” John said, brushing his hands together in a self-satisfied way, “let’s call Mr. Smith.”
I ducked my head, hiding my blushing cheeks by pretending to be busy putting my cell phone back in my bag. Encouraging his occasional lapses into less than civilized behavior seemed like a bad idea, so I didn’t let on how extremely attractive I’d found what he’d just done.
“You know,” I remarked coolly, “I’m already your girlfriend. You don’t have to show off your superhuman strength for me.”
John looked as if he didn’t for one minute believe my disinterest. He opened the grate for me with a gentlemanly bow. “Let’s go find your cousin,” he said. “I’d like to be home in time for supper. Where’s the coffin?”
“It’s at my mom’s house,” I said.
“ What? ” That deflated his self-satisfaction like a pin through a balloon. He stood stock-still outside the door to his crypt, the word HAYDEN carved in bold capital letters above his head. “What’s it doing there ?”
“Seth Rector and his girlfriend and their friends asked me if they could build it in my mom’s garage,” I said. “They said it was the last place anyone would look.”
John shook his head slowly. “Rector,” he said, grinding out the word. “I should have known.”
I threw him a wide-eyed glance. “ You know Seth Rector?”
“Not Seth,” he said, darkly.
“Wait. You know his dad?” The Rectors were an extremely influential family in Isla Huesos. Besides having the largest and most ornate mausoleum in the cemetery — it made John’s, which was fairly large, look like a kid’s playhouse — Seth’s father was a realtor and developer whose signs, Rector Realty, were plastered over the windows of every empty shop downtown. “What’s your connection to the Rectors?”
“It’s a long story,” John said, the corners of his mouth tugged down as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. He turned around and started walking towards the cemetery gate. “Your mother’s house is only a few streets from here. We can walk without anyone noticing us if we stick to the side roads.”
“You say that about everything,” I complained, trailing after him. “Everything is a long story, too long to tell me. I suppose after two hundred years, or whatever, things get a little convoluted, but can’t you paraphrase? How do you know the Rectors?”
When we rounded the corner, it became apparent there wouldn’t be time for any stories at all, paraphrased or not. Not because the gray clouds that were hanging so threateningly overhead had burst open, the way I was half expecting them to, but because the family we’d seen earlier, along with Mr. Smith and the people holding the clipboards, were climbing into their various vehicles in the parking lot right in front of us.
It shouldn’t have been a big deal. We were just an ordinary young couple, taking a late afternoon stroll through the cemetery.
I’d forgotten that, due to the “vandalism” that had occurred there earlier in the week, the cemetery gates (which John had kicked apart in a fit of temper) had been ordered locked twenty-four hours a day by the chief of police.
So it kind of was a big deal.
Still, that didn’t explain why one of the women — the grandmother, if her gray hair was any indication — took one look at my face, made the sign of the cross, cried, “¡Dios mío!” then passed out cold right in front of us.
D ead?” I echoed. “She fainted because she thinks I’m dead ?”
“Missing,” Mr. Smith corrected me. He sank
So I got to witness firsthand how those metal links got broken. The muscles in his upper arms pumped to the size of grapefruits, and the fabric of the T-shirt tightened around them almost to tearing….
Then the metal gave way with a musical twang, and the chain snaked noisily from the grate, falling to the rain-softened earth with a clunk.
“By all means,” John said, brushing his hands together in a self-satisfied way, “let’s call Mr. Smith.”
I ducked my head, hiding my blushing cheeks by pretending to be busy putting my cell phone back in my bag. Encouraging his occasional lapses into less than civilized behavior seemed like a bad idea, so I didn’t let on how extremely attractive I’d found what he’d just done.
“You know,” I remarked coolly, “I’m already your girlfriend. You don’t have to show off your superhuman strength for me.”
John looked as if he didn’t for one minute believe my disinterest. He opened the grate for me with a gentlemanly bow. “Let’s go find your cousin,” he said. “I’d like to be home in time for supper. Where’s the coffin?”
“It’s at my mom’s house,” I said.
“ What? ” That deflated his self-satisfaction like a pin through a balloon. He stood stock-still outside the door to his crypt, the word HAYDEN carved in bold capital letters above his head. “What’s it doing there ?”
“Seth Rector and his girlfriend and their friends asked me if they could build it in my mom’s garage,” I said. “They said it was the last place anyone would look.”
John shook his head slowly. “Rector,” he said, grinding out the word. “I should have known.”
I threw him a wide-eyed glance. “ You know Seth Rector?”
“Not Seth,” he said, darkly.
“Wait. You know his dad?” The Rectors were an extremely influential family in Isla Huesos. Besides having the largest and most ornate mausoleum in the cemetery — it made John’s, which was fairly large, look like a kid’s playhouse — Seth’s father was a realtor and developer whose signs, Rector Realty, were plastered over the windows of every empty shop downtown. “What’s your connection to the Rectors?”
“It’s a long story,” John said, the corners of his mouth tugged down as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. He turned around and started walking towards the cemetery gate. “Your mother’s house is only a few streets from here. We can walk without anyone noticing us if we stick to the side roads.”
“You say that about everything,” I complained, trailing after him. “Everything is a long story, too long to tell me. I suppose after two hundred years, or whatever, things get a little convoluted, but can’t you paraphrase? How do you know the Rectors?”
When we rounded the corner, it became apparent there wouldn’t be time for any stories at all, paraphrased or not. Not because the gray clouds that were hanging so threateningly overhead had burst open, the way I was half expecting them to, but because the family we’d seen earlier, along with Mr. Smith and the people holding the clipboards, were climbing into their various vehicles in the parking lot right in front of us.
It shouldn’t have been a big deal. We were just an ordinary young couple, taking a late afternoon stroll through the cemetery.
I’d forgotten that, due to the “vandalism” that had occurred there earlier in the week, the cemetery gates (which John had kicked apart in a fit of temper) had been ordered locked twenty-four hours a day by the chief of police.
So it kind of was a big deal.
Still, that didn’t explain why one of the women — the grandmother, if her gray hair was any indication — took one look at my face, made the sign of the cross, cried, “¡Dios mío!” then passed out cold right in front of us.
D ead?” I echoed. “She fainted because she thinks I’m dead ?”
“Missing,” Mr. Smith corrected me. He sank
Similar Books
