that she’d woken up early to watch the Sunday-morning newscast—a ritual to which she’d strictly adhered for as long as I could remember. That glow, and her brown sedan parked out front, meant that she’d spent the night in the relative safety of her house.
But inexplicably, my stomach began to sour with fear. I pressed one hand to my abdomen, willing myself to breathe normally as Joshua parked the truck a few hundred feet back from my mother’s driveway.
He turned toward me in the cab, his eyes suddenly serious. “I’m coming with you this time,” he said.
Just yesterday, I’d asked him to wait in the car. Although I’d appreciated his support, I didn’t think my mother could take the added stress of meeting her undead daughter’s living boyfriend. But this morning, I wasn’t sure I could make the trip across my mother’s tiny yard all by myself.
Watching the flicker of light in her window, I nodded and, without thinking, reached out to give Joshua’s hand a grateful squeeze. Immediately, my hand slapped against the steering wheel. I looked down to see my hand shimmering, transparent, above his.
“Perfect timing,” I growled, and yanked my hand back.
Joshua sighed, pulled his own hand from the steering wheel, and ran his fingers through the air beside my cheek. An uncomfortable jumble of desire, anger, and fear shot its way through me and came to life as a blush on my cheeks.
“One thing at a time,” Joshua reminded me gently.
“You’re right,” I whispered, shaking my head at myself. “It’s just that I’m . . . I’m just . . .”
When I trailed off, he laughed softly but without humor. “I know. Trust me, Amelia: I know.”
He dropped his fingers and let them hover, a millimeter from the delicate spot above my collarbone. Then, with another heavy sigh, he pulled away and got out of the truck. I waited, fighting the urge to shriek with frustration—about Joshua, about the demons, about what I might view through my mother’s window. After a few embattled seconds, I climbed out of the truck too.
I trudged behind Joshua, dragging my feet through the thick, dewy grass of my mother’s lawn. The yard really needed a good mow, but if I had to guess, my parents’ mower had died sometime after me and my father. I made a mental note to drag Joshua over here, while my mother was still at work, for a day of covert yard cleanup.
If she’s still alive to need it. If any of you are.
The cold, slithery voice in my head was my own, but I jerked back as though I’d been slapped. Shut up , I silently told the other voice. I don’t need your input.
Unaware of my nasty inner dialogue, Joshua glanced over his shoulder to give me a small, close-lipped smile as we stepped together onto my mother’s porch.
You okay? he mouthed.
I just set my lips into a grim line and moved to peer in the front window, praying that my mother had left the curtains parted at least an inch or two.
To my eternal gratitude, she had. Even better, she was sitting on the couch just to the side of them. From that position, I could easily see her profile as she faced the TV.
I gusted out an enormous breath of relief and began to count off each indication that my mother was alive and well: the flick of her ponytail as she moved her head quickly from side to side; the tight clench and unclench of her hands to her closed lips; the almost violent lift and fall of her shoulders. . . .
I stopped counting. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
My mother’s entire body moved as though someone had attached puppet strings to it—she was jerking and shaking on the couch.
Is she having a seizure?
At that thought, I didn’t care if I alerted her to my presence; I practically threw myself against the window to get a better look inside. From that vantage point, I could see that, aside from the heavy crisscross of tears across her cheek, she seemed perfectly healthy. Alert, upright, and in relative control of her limbs. But as she
But inexplicably, my stomach began to sour with fear. I pressed one hand to my abdomen, willing myself to breathe normally as Joshua parked the truck a few hundred feet back from my mother’s driveway.
He turned toward me in the cab, his eyes suddenly serious. “I’m coming with you this time,” he said.
Just yesterday, I’d asked him to wait in the car. Although I’d appreciated his support, I didn’t think my mother could take the added stress of meeting her undead daughter’s living boyfriend. But this morning, I wasn’t sure I could make the trip across my mother’s tiny yard all by myself.
Watching the flicker of light in her window, I nodded and, without thinking, reached out to give Joshua’s hand a grateful squeeze. Immediately, my hand slapped against the steering wheel. I looked down to see my hand shimmering, transparent, above his.
“Perfect timing,” I growled, and yanked my hand back.
Joshua sighed, pulled his own hand from the steering wheel, and ran his fingers through the air beside my cheek. An uncomfortable jumble of desire, anger, and fear shot its way through me and came to life as a blush on my cheeks.
“One thing at a time,” Joshua reminded me gently.
“You’re right,” I whispered, shaking my head at myself. “It’s just that I’m . . . I’m just . . .”
When I trailed off, he laughed softly but without humor. “I know. Trust me, Amelia: I know.”
He dropped his fingers and let them hover, a millimeter from the delicate spot above my collarbone. Then, with another heavy sigh, he pulled away and got out of the truck. I waited, fighting the urge to shriek with frustration—about Joshua, about the demons, about what I might view through my mother’s window. After a few embattled seconds, I climbed out of the truck too.
I trudged behind Joshua, dragging my feet through the thick, dewy grass of my mother’s lawn. The yard really needed a good mow, but if I had to guess, my parents’ mower had died sometime after me and my father. I made a mental note to drag Joshua over here, while my mother was still at work, for a day of covert yard cleanup.
If she’s still alive to need it. If any of you are.
The cold, slithery voice in my head was my own, but I jerked back as though I’d been slapped. Shut up , I silently told the other voice. I don’t need your input.
Unaware of my nasty inner dialogue, Joshua glanced over his shoulder to give me a small, close-lipped smile as we stepped together onto my mother’s porch.
You okay? he mouthed.
I just set my lips into a grim line and moved to peer in the front window, praying that my mother had left the curtains parted at least an inch or two.
To my eternal gratitude, she had. Even better, she was sitting on the couch just to the side of them. From that position, I could easily see her profile as she faced the TV.
I gusted out an enormous breath of relief and began to count off each indication that my mother was alive and well: the flick of her ponytail as she moved her head quickly from side to side; the tight clench and unclench of her hands to her closed lips; the almost violent lift and fall of her shoulders. . . .
I stopped counting. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
My mother’s entire body moved as though someone had attached puppet strings to it—she was jerking and shaking on the couch.
Is she having a seizure?
At that thought, I didn’t care if I alerted her to my presence; I practically threw myself against the window to get a better look inside. From that vantage point, I could see that, aside from the heavy crisscross of tears across her cheek, she seemed perfectly healthy. Alert, upright, and in relative control of her limbs. But as she
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