Prey (31 page)

Des.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and Marc nodded. Kaci and I’d been helping as much as we could with the baby, considering her age and my broken arm, because both of Manx’s hands were still bandaged, and my mother was more than a little distracted.

I jogged down the hall, bracing myself for another diaper full of poo—I couldn’t
believe
how much excrement a child so small could produce!—but stopped short in Manx’s doorway, surprise stealing both my words and my breath.

“He does not like powder,” Manx was saying, gesturing with one heavily bandaged hand. “But he seems to like the cream.”

“This stuff?” Owen held up a half-empty tube of Desitin, his lip curling in distaste. “It smells like Crisco.”

I smiled, leaning with one shoulder against the doorjamb. “I don’t think you can cook with diaper cream, cowboy.”

Owen flushed, and dropped the tube into a
blue-checked lined basket on the changing table. “I was just trying to help….”

“By all means.” I smiled, amused by his embarrassment. “But a word to the wise? Desitin stains, so don’t get any on your suit.”

“Thanks.” Owen nodded, and gingerly peeled back the tabs on Des’s diaper. He lifted the front flap and peeked inside hesitantly. “Holy shit!” he cried, and I was laughing for the first time in days when I heard the phone ring.

It was a cell phone, playing “She Hates Me” by Puddle of Mudd.

My smile faded, and chill bumps popped up on my arms.
Well, shit.
What were the chances someone else had Angela’s dedicated ringtone?

I wandered down the hall, following the song, hoping it would go silent with every passing moment, when the voice mail kicked in. Because I
really
didn’t want to take that call. But
someone
had to.

Puddle of Mudd played on, and I found myself standing in the doorway to Owen’s room, which he’d shared with Ethan until three days earlier. And sure enough, there was Ethan’s phone, bouncing around on his night table, its screen illuminated in an eerie blue light.

I glanced down the hall toward the living room, wondering if I should answer it, or take it to my father. After all, what would I say? Was there a socially acceptable way to tell your dead brother’s girlfriend about his demise?

Hesitantly, I crossed the room and glanced at the
display screen. My heart seemed to swell within my chest, and I felt my pulse race at the information it verified.

Angela Hasting.
The “long-term” girlfriend Ethan had been avoiding all week.

I snatched the phone before I could chicken out, and pushed the Accept Call button. She should know what had happened. Or at least one version of it. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’m looking for Ethan Sanders.” She sounded nice. And I really didn’t want to ruin her day.

“Um…is this Angela?” I asked.

“Yes. Who is this?” Her voice dipped into the suspicion range, and I flinched, because it was about to get
so
much worse.

“This is Faythe. Ethan’s sister.”

“Oh, hi, Faythe.” Relief was thick in her tone, and that made everything so much harder. “Ethan talks about you all the time. Can I speak to him, please?”

Well, here goes…
“Angela, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Ethan had an accident three days ago. A really bad one.” I hesitated, then made myself say the rest of it. “He…died.”

“What?
No.
” She sniffled, and fresh tears formed in my own eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” I sank onto Ethan’s bed, wondering if I should offer to meet her for lunch or something, to explain the human-friendly version of his last moments.

“Me, too.” The sniffling grew more pronounced. “What happened? How did he…?”

“He fell and broke his neck,” I said, closing my eyes, but even as the words left my lips, his actual death replayed in my head, his last words—a plea for my help—haunting me. “Ethan was just being himself, and he fell out of a tree in our front yard.”

“How horrible…” Angela’s pause felt heavy, as if she had more to say, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it, whatever it was. I wasn’t up to remembering Ethan with someone who couldn’t possibly have really known him. Not with the dirt still fresh on his grave.

But she continued before I could figure how to hang up gracefully. “I know my timing really sucks, but… well, I need to tell you something.”

What, had he left a toothbrush at her place? Snagged one of her T-shirts? Whatever it was, it could damn well wait until we’d at least said goodbye to the other mourners.

“I’m pregnant.”

Don’t miss the Faythe Sanders novel,

SHIFT,

coming June 2010!

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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Published in Great Britain 2009.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Rachel Vincent 2009

ISBN 978-1-4089-1475-5