Beyond The Grave. Mara Purnhagen

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      Class ended and I shut my notebook. My momentary good mood had faded with the thought of Dad sitting by Mom’s bedside. He was still asking me when I was going to visit. It would need to be soon—I was running out of valid excuses.

      I was typing a quick text to Avery—survived first class, will check on Dante later—when I became aware that someone else was still in the classroom. I glanced to my left, where a tall, lanky guy was gathering up his books. He appeared to be about twenty and was dressed in khaki pants and a white T-shirt. He looked up, and our eyes met.

      “Hey.” His voice was deep but friendly. I nodded, put my phone away and checked my schedule.

      “Need help?” the guy asked. “Finding your next class, I mean.”

      “No, thanks.” I held up my schedule. “There’s a very informative map on the back of this thing.”

      “Yeah, well, if you need anything …” His voice trailed off. Was this guy hitting on me? Avery had told me all about the perils a freshman coed faced. She said the upper classmen referred to them as “fresh meat.” Luckily, she had Jared by her side at every party, so she didn’t have to worry too much about being a target for drunk and disorderly frat boys.

      “I’m good,” I assured the guy. “Thanks anyways.”

      He nodded and walked out of the room. I waited a moment before following. As I approached the door, something on the floor caught my eye. It was a business card. A very familiar one. I knelt down and picked it up. Potion was typed across the cream-colored front in swirly purple letters.

      “Weird.” Potion was a store I knew well, but it was located about an hour away. It seemed strange that Beth’s business card had found its way here, to my classroom.

      I flipped the card over, hoping to find a message, but it was blank. Had the too-helpful guy dropped it? Or did it belong to someone else? It was an odd coincidence.

      When I returned home after my day of classes, I found Trisha sitting at the kitchen counter with over a dozen plates arranged in front of her. On each plate sat a single piece of cake.

      “I was planning on having an apple,” I said, pulling up a stool. “But this looks good, too.”

      Trisha gave me a weary smile. “I’m trying to decide on the wedding cake.” She glanced toward the living room and raised her voice. “But someone is refusing to help me even though it’s his wedding, too!”

      I heard a chair push back. Shane appeared in the doorway a moment later. “I told you, I’m not a cake person. Whatever you decide will be fine with me.”

      “We’re supposed to be doing this together!” Trisha seemed genuinely upset. “We need to make a decision.”

      I hated to see Trisha stressed, and not just because she was Noah’s mother and Shane’s fiancée. She had been a comforting presence in my life after the attack, handling everything we were too numb to remember. She had answered our phone—which never seemed to stop ringing—responded to an avalanche of email messages, and still found time to make dinner for everyone. She had stepped in long after the initial wave of concerned friends and neighbors had returned to their lives, leaving behind half-eaten casseroles and promises to check in on us.

      When Shane had announced that he had proposed and Trisha held out her hand to reveal a single sparkly diamond, it was the first time in months that everyone in my family felt a real moment of happiness. Annalise and I hugged her, Dad shook Shane’s hand, and we all sipped champagne from coffee mugs because we didn’t have wineglasses. The wedding preparations had begun the very next day, with Trisha bringing over a stack of thick bridal magazines that she and Annalise flipped through, circling everything they thought was pretty or elegant or festive.

      Noah had rolled his eyes. “She’s gone insane,” he’d told me as we watched a movie in the next room. “She’s already picked out my cummerbund.”

      I had giggled, and he had pointed a finger at me. “She’s picking out a dress for you, so don’t laugh.”

      Terrifying visions of puffy taffeta had filled my mind as I heard Annalise squeal over a veil. I had stopped giggling.

      I understood Trisha’s enthusiasm—she had eloped with Noah’s father at age eighteen wearing jeans and a T-shirt—but I didn’t understand the rush to get everything done. They had months and months before the big day, a date picked because it would coincide with Ryan’s leave from the army, but also because it would allow time for Mom to heal.

      I turned my attention back to the slabs of wedding cake. “How about this? Trish and I will narrow the cakes down to three. Then you can pick your favorite.”

      Shane beamed. “Great! That okay with you, hon?”

      Trisha considered it, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, that would work.”

      Shane gave me a thumbs-up and went back to editing footage.

      “Where’s my dad?” I asked Trisha.

      She handed me a fork. “Taking a nap. Shane is supposed to wake him before dinner.”

      I wanted to tell him all about my first day at school, but it could wait.

      “So, I think we should take a bite from each piece and rate them on a scale of one to ten.” Trish pulled out a notepad. “I’ll keep score.”

      We spent the next half hour stuffing ourselves with the sweet samples. We agreed that the slices covered with fondant were out. They looked nice, but neither one of us could stomach the fondant, which was a tasteless, rubbery skin stretched across a thin layer of frosting. We also agreed to eliminate chocolate and anything with a fruity filling. Finally we had it down to three samples and called Shane in to taste.

      Trisha watched her fiancée with anxious eyes. She had a favorite and was hoping it would be his, as well. Shane took his time, and I couldn’t decide if he was torturing us or really trying to take the task seriously. He put down his fork.

      “This one.” He held up the remains of a white slice.

      Trisha squealed. “That’s my favorite, too!” She jumped up from her chair and hugged him, then grabbed her phone to call the bakery.

      Shane smiled at me. “Thanks, kid. I owe you one.”

      “Yeah, well, I owe you about a thousand.” I looked at the kitchen clock. It was after three. “Will you tell Trish I’ll pick up Noah from school?” I grabbed my keys and purse off the counter. “We’ll see you for dinner and maybe we can work on the DVD afterwards.”

       “Sounds good. Do you have a minute, though? I need to talk to you about something.”

      I glanced at the clock again. “Sure. I have a minute.” I sat back down and braced myself for an onslaught of wedding details.

      “I got a call today,” Shane began. “You remember Pate?” “The prison guy?”

      “Yeah. His lawyer contacted me. Seems our favorite prison historian is suffering from emotional distress since our visit and is demanding compensation.”

      “Great. A lawsuit.” It had happened before, СКАЧАТЬ