Page 95 of Graveyards & Greed

Crossing her arms, she stared at me as her eyes started tearing up. “Why are you doing this, huh? You’re not family, and you don’t know what I’ve been through. Why do you even care?”

The hitch in her voice made my heart ache, and I wanted to wrap my arms around Camilla and promise her that everything would be alright. But I didn’t know that, and I wouldn’t deceive her.

Setting the box and the garment bag on her bed, I hung my head, wondering how to tell her about Carver. “We found the second man who attacked you.”

Her breath hitched, and she slowly sat on the bed. “You… know about him?” she whispered.

Turning my head, I held her gaze without flinching. She deserved to know, and somehow I knew she didn’t want my pity. “I do. It took him a few days, but that evil, psychotic asshole is dead, and it wasn’t pretty or painless.”

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her that part. I wiped a hand down my face and rubbed my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I doubt your grandma would appreciate me telling you. But if it were me, I’d want to know.”

I set the shoebox in my lap and opened it, lifting one of the Doc Martin custom combat boots I’d commissioned for her to go with the bridesmaid dress. The previously white leather had been hand-painted with cogs and steampunk wheels, along with Einstein’s theory of relativity and the Pythagorean Theorem. The mural on the shoes was clever and a little edgy, but it somehow fit Camilla.

“You can wear these instead of dress shoes if you want,” I murmured, holding the boot out to her. She hesitated, then slowly took it and studied the artwork.

“These are dope. Thanks,” she replied quietly.

I assumed that was a good thing. “When something this… catastrophic and earthshattering happens to a person, your life irrevocably changes. It’s a cold fact, no matter what anyone says.” The memory of finding my mother in her closet flitted through me, and I absently rubbed at the scars on one of my arms. “But pain and heartbreak can sometimes warp and twist us into something stronger. More resilient, I guess. If we don’t let it suck us under.”

She put the shoe down and nudged my leg. “Abuelatold me about your mom. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m sorry about your mom too. You asked me why I’m doing this.” I pointed to the dress and then her. “Your grandma gave me unconditional love and acceptance when I moved here as a scared, bratty kid after my mother killed herself, and right now you’re breaking her heart. So I’m here to do what she can’t—drag you out of the hell you’re in right now.” I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed, breathing a small sigh when she slumped into me and put her head on my shoulder. “And you can’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you I was going to drag your ass out of here.”

I left after Trina and Camilla both promised she’d be at the mortuary by one this afternoon. Then Milo and I made one more stop. The Fuzzy Peach salon was located in a live/work complex in Las Vegas’s Chinatown, and three women shared the space. Peyton Chen owned the apartment and retail storefront, and two women rented salon space from her on the main level. Peyton did body waxing and eyebrow weaving, and the other two did hair and nails.

She emerged from the back room with a client, who gave me a pained smile as she walked by. We waited for the door to close, then Peyton stared at me. “What’s going on? You don’t have an appointment.” Her eyes were almost too large for her face, reminding me of a character from theSailor Moonmanga series.

“Your eyebrows look like caterpillars. When was the last time you had them done? I heard you blew up three motorcycles in front of your funeral home. So messy.” Peyton seemed to lack a social filter, and she was even more blunt than Kilian. I sometimes wondered if she was on the Autism spectrum.

The shop also served as a front for her “extracurricular” activities. Fennick once mentioned that some of her family were tied to a Chinese gang in San Francisco, but Peyton seemed to work freelance. She had impeccable connections and an odd but firm moral code.

If someone flew into town and wanted a high-end escort—man or woman—Peyton could hook them up. If you needed an unmarked car and an untraceable weapon, she had a name. If a person requested a cleanup or needed evidence to disappear, she could make it happen—for a price. She was known as the “Broker of Vegas.”

“Can you send a special delivery to an OutKast member?”

Peyton quirked her head, and her eyes sharpened. “The one who raped that young girl on a high school robotics team? I thought he was missing.”

It didn’t surprise me she knew about the attack. Kilian and Peyton often traded information, and if Peyton had one tiny soft spot, it was for vulnerable women. “He’smissing, but not the man’s father who ordered and condoned it.”

Her jaw went tight. “What kind of delivery?”

“A fatal one,” I admitted.

“Is today too soon?”

Chapter 36

Sylvie

Luna fiddled with the delicate lace on my wedding dress while Alexa grinned at my reflection in the bedroom mirror. The mortuary apartment had turned into wedding prep headquarters, and my room had beauty products and shopping bags strewn on every surface. The exquisite off-white A-line dress, with a sheer bodice and intricate applique, fit me perfectly. Aida, The Firm’s personal shopper, had come through again.

“Only you would think it’s romantic to get married in the mortuary,” Alexa grinned as she stepped back.

“Yeah, if that doesn’t scream 'till death do us part,' I don't know what does.” Luna studied me as she twisted my hair into an artful partial updo. “How are you really feeling?”

“Terrified, anxious… hungry?” She smirked and slid a few bobby pins into my creation. After preparing so many bodies for open-casket funerals together, we were both good at hair and makeup, and working on a live, unmutilated person seemed easy in comparison.

Alexa picked up a garter belt with a blue ribbon and motioned to my leg. “Here’s your something blue.”

---