But he still wasn’t leaving without his answers. He’d never believed Maya took off as some people suggested. She never would have done that. They had their problems over the years, but his family was extremely close. She would never hurt their parents in such a way, and she wouldn’t have left him.
He may have been her annoying little brother at times, but they were also best friends. They were only fourteen months apart, so they’d grown up extremely close. There were times they tried to kill each other, tormented each other, and vowed never to speak again.
But those times were always short-lived, and an hour later, they’d be playing together again. They walked to school together every day, and as they got older, he rode in the passenger seat of her beat-up Chevy pickup everywhere she went.
He could clearly recall her in the driver seat, with the sun spilling over her chocolate-colored hair and shining in her onyx eyes. At the top of her lungs, she would belt out the lyrics to some new pop song while dancing in her seat. More into hard rock and alternative music, he always rolled his eyes at her, but somehow, he’d find himself singing along.
No, he didn’t believe Maya had taken off, but he didn’t believe she was alive either. Still, he would bring her home so he could bury her with their parents, who both passed less than three years after Maya vanished. Before they died, he promised them he would bring her home, and he had to know who took her from them.
Thoughts of his dead family caused him to lift a hand to his necklace. The old, brass locket with the compass rose on the front was once his mother’s, and it was supposed to be Maya’s. Instead, the locket housed a photo of his parents and one of Maya, and it was his.
He turned his attention to the sun streaming across the hardwood floors as it shone through the window. The lulling rumble of the passing cars and the songs of the birds caused his mind to wander to the woman he saw at Adler’s piano bar two weeks ago. But then, every chance they got, his thoughts returned to her.
The haunting melody of her voice, the sweet, cherry scent of her, and her striking beauty had woven a spell around him that he couldn’t break. And he didn’t think he’d break it even if he could.
He easily recalled the wariness and curiosity in her midnight blue eyes as she looked from him to the picture of his last client. She was a vampire too; he’d recognized that immediately, but he didn’t think she was a killer like some of the others he’d run across. However, he had no way of knowing for sure, and being beautiful didn’t mean she wasn’t deadly. Oleander was beautiful too, and it was lethal.
Ever since turning into a vamp, he’d learned there were two types of vampires—those who killed and those who didn’t. He stayed away from those who killed; hell, he avoided most of his kind as often as possible.
That was the reason he hadn’t returned to the bar. He wanted to see the woman again, but not the other three vamps who were there too. The woman had known them. She went to them and spoke with them; they were her friends.
Friends, he thought with a small snort of laughter. The concept of friends was so odd to him; like family, he didn’t have friends anymore. He’d given them up ten years ago with his mortality.
But he didn’t know how much longer he could stay away from the woman. Maybe seeing her would help rid her from his system, and he could get through an hour or two without thinking about her. He should go back tonight.
So lost in contemplation, he didn’t hear Mrs. Abbott descending the stairs until she was already at the bottom of them. He rose as she entered the room.
“Here it is,” she said as she strode toward him with regal grace. Despite her outwardly calm demeanor, her hand trembled as she held the diary out to him. “I hope she forgives me for this.”
“I won’t tell her if you don’t,” he said.
He took the red, leather-bound book from her but didn’t open it. She was already anxious about this decision; seeing a stranger rifle through her daughter’s most private thoughts would only make it worse.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from examining the cover. It was not the type of diary he would have associated with a sixteen-year-old girl. He’d expected flowers, or maybe some rainbows, or some other girlish thing, not this plain book that looked more like a journal than a diary.
He tucked the journal into the inner pocket of his leather jacket. “Can you think of anything else that might help me?”
“No. I gave you the names of her friends, told you where she liked to hang out and the activities she was involved in, but all those were things she liked to do before my husband died; I’m not sure any of them are relevant anymore. I should have paid more attention after he died, but I was so lost. And now, because of me, Julie is too.”
Even after years of dealing with these kinds of situations, Dante still felt awkward handling them. However, he rested his hand on her arm and held her gaze as he spoke. “Don’t blame yourself. Everyone deals with grief in their own way.”
He’d dealt with it by agreeing to end his mortal life and become something more. Whether that something more was man or monster, he still didn’t know.
“Thank you,” she whispered as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I’ll be in touch every day to let you know my progress.”
“Thank you,”
