She heard someone say something in a low voice, as if to purposely keep it from her. She opened her eyes. The agents, Burnett included, stood at the side of the grave, looking down at the opened casket as if something was inside.
Della’s breath caught. Had someone taken up residence in Chan’s casket?
“What is it?” She shot up. If it was a corpse, they’d better crawl their dead ass out of there, because they were about to get evicted. That was Chan’s casket, and by God, he was going to be laid to rest there.
Chapter Nine
Della’s heart did a double tumble before fixing her eyes on the open casket and possibly a decomposed body that she might have to remove.
Air, sounding a lot like relief, escaped her lungs and lips. Not a body. Just a box. A large shoe box.
She could admit it was strange, but the look of befuddlement on the faces of the three agents and Burnett seemed like overkill.
Then she saw it. The box vibrated. Like it held a heart.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Right then, the moon’s silver cast of light was blocked out by a large gray cloud slithering across the sky. The air she’d released in relief reversed and filled her lungs.
Just a rat, she told herself. But then, the oh-so-familiar sound of a heartbeat spilled out of the box.
“Someone needs to see what’s in it,” said the youngest agent, a warlock, but from his tone it was clear he wasn’t volunteering.
“Who says we have to open it?” said another of the agents, a vampire.
As if the dang box heard him, it started moving faster, and then the top flew off. Della wanted to tell herself it was the wind, but the night air stood so still that even the leaves didn’t stir.
With the moon’s desertion, the contents of the box were unidentifiable. Della leaned down. Something metal lay on top, but she couldn’t identify it. Then she spotted what looked like photographs.
Were these Chan’s things? Della’s heart yanked again. Was his ghost making the box tremble? Did he want her to look inside? Della looked over at the tarp where Chan’s body lay extra cold. Extra dead. Right then, a coldness overtook her.
Is it you, Chan?
Giving in, she exhaled the stale air held in her lungs. “Raise the casket a little higher and I’ll get it,” Della finally said.
“No, I’ll do it.” Burnett sounded embarrassed she’d volunteered before him. He glanced over at the fae agent who’d been driving the backhoe and now stood with them. “Go pull it up higher.”
The agent went back to the backhoe, almost eager to get away. Della watched and listened as the chains pulled the mud-caked open casket up another foot.
When Burnett started to reach in, Della stopped him. “It was Chan’s. I think I should do it.”
He nodded. She picked up the box and saw the wide-eyed stares from all the agents, as if fearing the thing would bite her.
It didn’t. At least not physically. Emotionally, she was bitten as soon as she glanced down and identified the metal object on top. One of Chan’s many bowling trophies. He’d told her once that he didn’t care that being a bowling champion made him look like a dork. It was the only sport he was good at. Yet, he’d never really been a dork, just a skinny Asian kid, a bit of a nonconformist, but with a good heart.
Feeling her eyes sting, she walked away to a private spot. The cloud moved away from the moon, and silver light whispered down on her. As crazy as it sounded, the moon’s glow almost warmed her skin like the sun.
She sat down between the rows of tombstones and put the open box and its lid in front of her. After seeing the box pulsate, fear should have been present, but oddly she didn’t feel it. This was about Chan. And Chan would never hurt her.
In a matter of seconds—noting only the items on the top—she understood the meaning of the box. Chan had been burying his old life. All the boxed items stood for things that had meant something to him. All the things he’d lost the day he’d been turned. And damn it, she knew how that felt.
No, she hadn’t faked her death, but she’d still lost so much.
She ran her finger over the bowling trophy sporting Chan’s name. She spotted the pictures of his family and friends, and a letter from his one and only girlfriend. Sensing it might be personal, she didn’t read it.
Instead, she picked up and studied a few of the photos: Chan with his little sister on their bikes; a family portrait of his mom, dad, and sister all together on a picnic blanket. Pictures of him at his eleventh-grade prom—his skinny frame decked out in a tux and his girlfriend, a slightly chubby Asian girl, dressed in a poufy pink dress. An unexpected smile pulled at Della’s lips seeing her lanky cousin wearing a bow tie.
When she put the pictures back in the box, Della spotted the necklace. Her breath hitched. She’d given it to him on his last birthday—at the bowling party. It was a peace sign, and when she’d seen it shopping the week before his birthday, she’d thought of Chan, who had always been a bit of a hippie.
She grasped the necklace in her palm, half debating keeping it, but then she realized it didn’t belong to her. It belonged to Chan. And now he’d be buried with all the things that had mattered to him. That felt right.
Della looked up and saw the agents had placed Chan’s body in the casket and were waiting on her to make a decision to view him or not. Instantly, she knew the vision in the clouds was the memory she wanted to keep. She glanced at Burnett and shook her head. He started over.