Dying Breath. Heather Graham
anyway. Unless you’re you, of course, looking up the lives of all those who came before!”
“I’m ignoring you!” Vickie said, hurrying on ahead.
Naturally, he caught up to her.
On the street, she looked around, and then turned to him, speaking firmly. “Hey! I’m going to my parents’ place. If you come, you behave. You understand.”
He grinned. Dylan was still not quite eighteen. Charming, boyish and handsome. If she was going to have a continual haunt—or a crazed personality—she could have been plagued by a far worse ghost, she was certain. But some days, he was truly and mischievously out to make her appear to have gone daft.
“Sure,” he said.
A cop car went by, sirens blazing. And then another. Dylan looked after the cop cars.
“Hey, something is going down—over by the Granary cemetery. Want to check it out?”
“No,” she said flatly. “You feel free to do so.”
“I will,” he told her.
“See you then,” she said.
He laughed. “Oh, yeah. Don’t worry. I know where your parents live.”
“Yes, of course, you do,” she said.
It wasn’t much of a walk to her parents’ home in Little Italy. They’d moved when she’d gone to college, but they hadn’t moved far. They were now in a refurbished building that dated back to the 1820s but had been meticulously updated and turned into state-of-the-art condos.
They loved it; her father was now retired after thirty years as a history professor at Harvard, and her mom had left her position as first-grade teacher just last year. Their apartment had everything they could desire and they were close to all the restaurants they loved—especially a certain cannoli shop.
When Vickie arrived, the two were studying a travel website.
“Italy! The real thing,” Lucy Preston said, her smile wide and her words excited as she opened the door. “Dad and I are really doing it! Rome, Florence, Venice...we’re going! Doing the booking right now.”
“Great!” Vickie told her mother, giving her a hug.
“Want to come?” Lucy asked.
“No,” Vickie said with a laugh. “Join you two lovebirds on a romantic trip? Nope, thank you, but no thank you. Besides, you two kids are retired now. You can come and go as you like.”
“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” her dad, Philip, said. “It would really get you away from Jared.”
“That terrible man!” her mother said.
“Mom, he isn’t a terrible man. He’s just—not right for me.”
“Well, you could come to Italy for a few days. I mean, you’re writing now. You can write anywhere.”
“Ah, but I can’t find those persnickety Puritans just anywhere, can I? My research is here, in this area, Mom, you know that.”
“We’ve created a monster, Lucy,” her dad said, coming up behind her mom. “She has a work ethic, dear Lord!” he teased, kissing her cheek. “Seriously, though? You’d love this trip, Vickie. I know. You would absolutely love it! You could do research in Italy.”
“Dad, the Puritans came from England, not Italy.”
“Ahha! But later, Italians flocked in and now, we’re living in what they call Little Italy!” her father said triumphantly.
“That’s not the point. You two need to go on alone and have a wonderful and really romantic trip!”
Vickie smiled. She loved her parents deeply. They were so savvy in many ways, and just a little bit clueless in others. They sometimes reminded her of a pair of children—incredibly responsible children, but in their enthusiasm, they frequently appeared on fire. As parents went, they were comparatively young and in excellent health. The trip they were planning was to celebrate the fact that they’d both turn sixty that year. In her mind, her dad—the esteemed Dr. Philip Preston—was as handsome and cool-looking as a rogue pirate—he kept his head clean-shaven and wore a tiny gold stud in one ear. He was well over six feet tall, lean and wiry. Her mom, on the other hand, was about five-two with a froth of blond curls and cat’s eyes—a hazel color that changed constantly. Her parents were attractive and energetic and she could just see the two of them cuddling in the back of a gondola.
Nope—she definitely didn’t want to go with them!
“I’m excited for you two,” she said.
“Coffee is on—want some?” her dad asked.
“Love it!”
“Come see what we’re planning,” her mother told her, urging her over to the dining room table where they’d set up their computer.
“Venice!” her mom said. “We’ll stay right on St. Mark’s Square. And in Rome, well you won’t believe this, but one of dad’s old students works as a tour guide and he’s going to take us on a special tour of the Forum and the Coliseum, and we’re meeting friends at a little restaurant near the Vatican... You know, you could meet us for just part of the trip, if you wanted.”
“My darling parents, I’m delighted that your health is great and that you’re off on an adventure,” Vickie said. “It will be wonderful. How long are you going for?”
“Twenty-one days,” her dad said. “I know you love Italy. It was all you talked about after that college trip you took. But,” he said, smiling at his wife, “I think you’re right to stay home. We both love that you’re working with young people now. It’s great for them.”
“I do love Italy. And I’ll go back with you one day,” she promised them.
“You staying here...does it have anything to do with Jared Norton?” he mother asked.
Vickie was surprised by the question.
“Mom, no—I’m just busy right now. And you guys need time to enjoy each other. Italy, so romantic! You two need to go. I need to stay and work.”
Her mother sighed deeply, and then accepted her words.
“Come on, then! Coffee. And, of course, I’ve got a pie,” her mom said. “Oh, wait—we should have dinner first. You’re here! Oh, and don’t make faces at me. I know I can’t really cook, but I do make the best clam chowder to be found anywhere, even you say that!”
Lucy grinned at her daughter. And Vickie laughed. “Yep, your clam chowder is to die for, it is, Mom. I’m totally wiped out, though.”
Naturally, her mom served up the clam chowder anyway. Vickie had a spoonful almost to her mouth when the ghost of Dylan Ballantine came streaking through the walls with a trail of mist, not unlike a dust storm in a cartoon.
Vickie dropped her spoon, startled. Clam chowder hopped out of the bowl in little droplets.
Her mother and father stared at her; then her mother shivered and frowned and looked uneasily about the room.
“Sorry! Clumsy me,” Vickie said.
Dylan paid no mind to her words or her parents. He was intent on her attention.
“Vickie, Vickie, you’ve got to help, you’ve got to do something. Dammit, Vickie!”
She kept smiling at her confused parents, refusing to look in his direction.
“Vickie, that killer, that Undertaker. He’s taken my mother, Vickie. You’ve got to do something!”
She couldn’t help herself. She jerked around to stare at him, horrified.
“Yes! They found the last woman who’d gone missing and right after, my dad called