event of her life.
“My parents died four years ago, and I’ve been raising Daisy ever since.”
Killian didn’t offer the condolences she expected. Instead he said, “That must be hard. To go from sister to mother.”
She glanced at him. He offered her a slight smile, and suddenly she felt something in her chest relax. Like a screw that had been drilled in too tight had been loosened, just a little.
She pulled in a breath, considering his response and her reaction. Most people said they were sorry. That they were saddened by her and Daisy’s loss. But people rarely said the words about how difficult it had been to not only lose her parents but to have to become a parent—all at the same time.
“It has been hard,” she said. “But Daisy is a great kid. So we’ve managed.”
Killian walked beside her, looking at the ground rather than at the beautiful sun-dappled scenery. Poppy found herself wondering what he was thinking. Why should she care, really? She’d just met him, and she didn’t even think she liked him that much.
“I imagine it’s doubly hard to handle things alone.”
She glanced at him again. She tried to hear pity in his voice. She’d gotten pity before, and that was just as hard to deal with as hollow sympathy. Sometimes she just wanted someone to say they understood.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, but then decided she didn’t want to discuss her life with this man, a man she barely knew. They strolled along the park pathway past a sprawling flower bed overflowing with red tulips fringed in an orangey-yellow.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” she said. “Like a sea of fire.”
He didn’t answer for a second as he followed her gaze to the flowers.
“They are considerably less dramatic than a sea of fire.”
“Okay,” Poppy said, not expecting that response. “I guess that’s true.”
“Oh, it’s definitely true.”
Poppy laughed, not sure what to make of this conversation and his adamancy. “I suppose, but they are still beautiful. In their own nonfiery way.”
He nodded, and she wasn’t sure if he really agreed or not. He was sort of a funny guy—funny in an odd way. But he was a paranormal investigator—that probably did make him look at the world in a different way.
“You must really resent it?”
She glanced over at him, not following. “Resent what? Your dashing my sea-of-fire analogy?”
“No.” He cast her a look like she was just silly. “You must resent having to take care of your sister.”
Almost instantly the screw in her chest that had released, even just a bit, twisted violently back into place. Tighter than before.
“No,” she managed to say, even though she couldn’t pull in a full breath. And without speaking another word or looking in his direction, she veered off the pathway onto the grass. Walking with no direction. Just needing to be away from this man and his awful words.
Killian watched Poppy stride away, realizing a fact about himself. The girls might have had a point. Maybe he was going to have work on the personality thing. He was considerably less charming without the ability to manipulate thoughts. Kind of a deflating realization.
But he’d thought getting Poppy to admit she was lonely and wanted someone to help with the burden of essentially being a single parent was a good way to segue into convincing her to date. Apparently not. In fact, he’d pretty much ruined the tiny bit of camaraderie they’d managed to build.
He started after her, doubling his steps to a jog until he was beside her. He touched her arm to stop her, to get her to look at him.
She did, and when her gaze met his, he could see the pain in her dark eyes, pain so clear and strong he could feel it radiate through him as if it were his own.
He dropped his hand away from her as if breaking physical contact would also break the emotional connection. It didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically, stunned by how much her hurt expression affected him.
Her gaze roamed his face as if she was trying to decide whether she should believe him; then she just nodded. She pulled in a deep breath and pointed past him.
“There’s the Central Burying Grounds. It’s supposed to be haunted. I know some of the stories. Maybe they would be good for your television show.”
Right. Right. The fake career. The fake TV show. And now it was time to create a fake friendship with this woman.
He smiled, pouring every bit of sheepish charm he could muster into that one curve of his lips. “That sounds like just the type of thing I was hoping to find.”
He gestured for her to lead the way. She regarded him again for a moment, then walked past him toward a fenced-in plot of land, scattered with old tombstones, crooked from years of the earth freezing and thawing under them.
Poppy pushed open a wrought-iron gate, and a loud creak moaned through the air. But the sound seemed more out of place than eerie. With the bright spring sunshine warming their faces and new grass almost blindingly green around the weathered gravestones, it was hard to see the place as anything other than peaceful.
As if reading Killian’s mind, Poppy said, “Maybe we should have waited to explore this place in the evening or on a rainy day. I’m afraid the stories will sound sort of lame on such a sunny day.”
“That’s okay. Tell me.”
“Well, there are several tales surrounding this place. This cemetery is where the most unfortunate citizens of Boston were buried. The poverty-stricken who died from awful diseases and from wretched conditions—”
As Poppy spoke, weaving the spine-chilling tale of tormented humans who became tortured apparitions forced to walk the earth, tied forever to this one place, Killian lost track of the story. Instead, he found himself lost in watching her face. The widening of her deep brown eyes as she told him of something frightening. The drawing together of her finely arched brows as she talked of something sad. The little wrinkle of her small, pert nose as she mentioned something unsavory.
He nodded at the appropriate times, pretending the story held him captivated, but it was really her small elfin face that held his attention.
Despite his earlier assessment, Poppy was really quite cute. More than cute. Lovely, really. He’d have no problem finding a man who would be interested in her. Maybe if she put her hair up—and wore prettier clothes. He bet she’d look really nice in a dress. And heels.
“It’s said that on moonlit nights the little girl appears. The girl … without a face. Killian?”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
“What do you think? Do you think you could make that work?”
He frowned. What work? The dress and heels? To get a man? Did she somehow know what he was thinking?
He shook his head slightly, not sure what the right answer was.
She laughed then, clearly enjoying his confusion. “Were you even listening to the story?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, the story.” He nodded his head. “I can definitely make it work. Totally.”
She smiled, eyeing him as if she still knew he hadn’t heard a word, but she didn’t question him any further. Instead she began to wander around the tombstones, just meandering and looking at the inscriptions, or at least the ones that were still legible.
Killian followed. Both were silent. The city bustled around them. Cars’ engines, honking horns, the sound of a busy metropolis—all seemed incongruous with their surroundings.
“Do you mainly focus on ghost stories?” she asked, her gaze on a headstone in front of her.
“Um, I do a lot with demons, actually. Damned souls. The different circles of Hell, that sort of thing.”
“Interesting.” She wandered to another stone. “How does someone become so interested in Hell?”
He shrugged, then moved to stand beside her. “Again, kind of a family pastime.”
She glanced at him. “You really must have an unusual family.”
He chuckled at that. “Definitely.”
