Page 23 of The Devil's Waltz

EIGHTCAMILLE

I sit in my car in the university’s student parking lot as heavy rain pours from the overcast sky and thunder rumbles through the air every couple of minutes. The storm has made the temperature drop and the atmosphere dull and gray.

I hate today.

Every year, I think I’ll be able to have a normal day. To go to class or work or doanything. And every year, I end up spending hours staring out the windshield, trying to convince myself to get out of the car. To live my life as Danielle always wanted me to.

Two hours later, the rain has slowed to a drizzle as I start my car and drive out of the lot, heading back to my apartment with tears in my eyes.

Maybe next year.

I drop my book bag on the bench near the door and wipe my cheeks as I walk into the kitchen. There’s a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream with my name on it. I intentionally saved it for today.

Harper is sitting at the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, gulping down a bright pink smoothie. “Hey, Cami. There’s some smoothie left, if you want it.” She points to the blender on the counter across the kitchen. “It’s strawberry-banana.”

“No thanks,” I say as I walk to the freezer and grab my sweet treat and a spoon. “Are you going to tell me what had you running out from breakfast the other day?”

She hesitates before sighing. “There was an attack. They called everyone in.”

Everyone?My chest tightens as my brows knit. “That must’ve been a big attack.”

“Don’t stress about it, babe. It was fine. I think they’re just being more cautious and on-guard these days.”

I frown, my eyes flicking between hers. She isn’t anywhere near as tense as I am, so I decide not to push it. She’s not supposed to tell me anything regarding the organization, anyway.

“I saw your dad at headquarters this morning,” Harper says next. “Did you know he was coming in from New York?”

“Yeah.” I turn and lean against the counter, popping off the lid of the ice cream and digging in. “I’m having dinner with him and my mom later.” All three of us get together only twice a year—for Danielle’s birthday in April and today, the anniversary of her death.

Harper pauses, the mason jar with her smoothie halfway to her mouth as realization fills her expression. “Shit,” she says on an exhale. “How are you doing?”

I shrug, shoveling a scoop of sugary goodness into my mouth.

Her brows pull together. “Cami—”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

“Can I do anything? Do you want me to come to dinner?”

I manage a small smile. “No, thank you. It’ll be fine—or it won’t be, and I’ll come home to drink about it.”

She frowns. “When was the last time you saw your dad?”

I dig the spoon into the ice cream again. “We had lunch last month when he was here for a seminar.” It was a quick visit. One that, by some stroke of luck, didn’t revolve around me training again. Dad and I have a better relationship when my mom isn’t involved, which is messed up, but I’ve somehow gotten used to it. Which only makes me dread tonight’s dinner more.

A few hours later, my parents are already seated in a booth at The Pink Door when I arrive. It’s where we always meet and, more times than not, we sit in the same booth near the back corner of the dining room. The space glows with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and candles burning on each table. A wall of windows showcases the night-covered waterfront and the lit up Seattle Great Wheel. The menu here is a bit fancier than I typically enjoy, but this was Danielle’s favorite place, so this is where we come to remember her.

Dad slides out of the booth as I approach, wrapping his arms around me tightly and pressing a kiss to the side of my head. His familiar sandalwood scent fills me, and I let myself exist in this moment, closing myeyes for a moment as we hug. “Good to see you, kiddo,” he says as we pull away.

“You too, Dad.” I pat his cheek. “You let your scruff grow. It looks good on you.”

It matches his sandy blond hair, which is combed back and styled neatly. Scott Morgan is definitely rocking the professor look. With a navy cashmere sweater and black slacks, he appears younger than his forty-seven years. He always has. It likely has to do with the necessity of keeping in such good health as a hunter, because my mother is the same. She also spends an obscene amount of money on skin care products, but to each their own.

He smiles. “Your mother disagrees.” His tone is light.

Mom scoffs halfheartedly.

I turn my attention to her. She makes no move to get out of the booth, so I drop into the chair across from her. “Hey, Mom.”

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