Stalking Dead (Vampire Hunter Book 2) (4 page)

Deciding to put both Lucas and Henry out of my mind, I spent the next few days closely watching David Matthews. Well, as closely as possible for someone who was supposed to be dead.

When he was gone during the day, I snuck into his office and checked his calendar to see if he had updated it with any new appointments.

You would think a top-notch criminal defense lawyer would have had more sense than to leave his password written down on a small piece of paper taped to the underside of his desk. It had taken me all of five minutes to locate it.

So far, my sleuthing hadn’t yielded anything of interest. Everything on his calendar – and I had checked it weeks into the future – looked like it was a legitimate appointment.
But then again, I doubt he had recorded that day at the hotel as “Meeting with my mistress.”

And David and Valerie seemed as solid as ever. They ate dinner together with Henry every night; I guess they had a rule that no matter what hours they had to work, it wouldn’t interfere with ‘family’ time.

It just didn’t add up. Sure, I could totally understand them getting older and growing apart. Didn’t that happen with almost everyone? Especially after you added a kid to the mix. Even I, in spite of being a total sucker for the sappy romantic comedy, understood that after the
happily ever after
fairy book ending, there were bills, kids, and a shit load of responsibility. Of course I wanted to believe that the endless nights of passionate lovemaking and wining and dining would go on forever, but who was anybody
really
kidding?

Well, maybe it would with Lucas. Anything is possible when it comes to him.

I had almost been able to put that kiss with Henry out of my mind, mostly because he seemed
totally
normal with me. Which I guessed was a good thing.

As for Lucas…I hadn’t heard from him for days, not since we’d dug up my grave.

My pride was hurt. I’d thought that I had
two
amazing guys who really liked me, and now it seemed I had zilch.

Maybe the Matthews men are really good at putting things out of their minds,
I mused.
But could Mr. Matthews really be capable of doing that to his longtime love?
The question had been rolling around in my mind since I first overheard that odd telephone conversation. I knew I should stay out of other people’s business, but I just couldn’t drop it. I had known Henry, and his parents, for that matter, for way too long to just sit idly by and watch David make a fool of Valerie.

All of this scrutiny into Mr. Matthew’s affairs had gotten me to thinking about my own parents. I had always heard that a tragedy would either bring two people together or rip them apart. I remembered seeing Mom rest her head on Dad’s shoulders
that first day at my grave, confirmation that my death had produced the latter of the two scenarios.

But I couldn’t help but wonder,
what if Kayla wasn’t around
? Would Mom and Dad have still toughed it out, or did my death kill their relationship? Every time they looked at each other, did they think of their daughter, killed in some gruesome way before her time and beyond their comprehension?

I knew now more than ever that I had to very carefully plan for my re-emergence into their lives. I had disturbed so much – and who even knew if my parents could stand the sight of each other any longer? I would have to be careful about how – and when – I showed them that I was back.
Henry hadn’t mentioned again that I needed to reveal myself to them, but I knew he would bring it up sooner or later.

I could still see my mom so vividly in my mind. Tall and slender, I had always looked up to her when I was a little girl.
I have the prettiest mommy in the world
, I used to tell her.

I don’t know when the last time I said that to her was.
I felt an unshakable sadness. Suddenly, all I longed for in the world was to hear the familiar click of her opening my bedroom door to check on me when she got home from work.

Mom was a pharmacist, an
d two days a week she worked until the pharmacy closed at seven. On those nights, Dad would roll up his sleeves and attempt to cook dinner for Kayla and me. Although after the chicken incident, we usually made it a pizza or Chinese night.

The Chicken Incident
, aka
The Great Chicken Debacle
, aka
The Time Daddy Tried to Kill Us
had become infamous in the Stone household. I smiled thinking about it.

My dad, who was not the most fantastic cook in the world to begin with, tried to kee
p it simple on the nights when Mom was working late. After Kayla and I had complained one too many times about the hamburger helper and fried egg dinners (not served together, of course), Dad had promised us he’d make some ‘real’ food. Perhaps more than a little overzealous, my dad decided to make a fancy, and complicated, prosciutto wrapped chicken.

The ingred
ients themselves cost nearly a hundred dollars. He had started preparations the night before, as the recipe called for an overnight marinade. Kayla and I had watched in amusement while he clumsily fumbled around the kitchen.

When he
had finally finished preparing the chicken and was ready to put it in the oven, it almost looked like a piece of art. Kayla and I had been impressed; now all he had to do was make sure he didn’t over or under cook it.

And boy, oh boy, did he overcook it. The chicken was supposed to be baked at 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Dad transposed the numbers and set the oven to five hundred and thirty degrees.

After about a half hour in the intense heat, a burning odor had wafted into the living room. We had all jumped up to run to the kitchen just as the smoke alarm was triggered. The room was filling up with thick smoke billowing from the oven.

Luckily, my parents had a mini fire extinguisher in the kitchen cabinet for just such an occasion. Dad
had extinguished the small fire that had started in the oven, and the rest, as they say, was history.

I chuckled at the memory
.

On the nights that my mom wasn’t working late, I would try and guess what she’d be cooking that night when I got bored during my 6
th
period history lecture. My favorite was when I would come home and could smell mom’s rich lasagna sauce before I even got through the door.

Kayla and I would tease mom that the odor was absorbed by the couch covers, permanently stuck in the carpet, and melded into the walls. We had even once told her that it would depreciate the value of the house, if they ever decided to sell it.

On lasagna night, we would harass mom with gusto. It had become a standing family joke. Truth be told, we loved mom’s lasagna. Passed down from generation to generation, it put the microwave oven prepared
Olive Garden
grub to shame.

I’ll never be able to eat that delicious meal again
, I thought sadly.

But it wasn’t just about the lasagna. It was what it represented.
Jokes with my family. Togetherness.

It’s true that food brings people together. We’d spend hours helping mom hand make the dough, then carefully feeding it through a pasta machine to create the flat laye
rs.

The tomato-
ey goodness that was baked between each layer had to simmer on the stove for hours. All three of us would taste it periodically, rolling the mixture around on our tongues to make sure it was seasoned properly. 

“A little more salt,” Kayla would suggest.

“No, no,” I’d argue. “It’s already got just the right amount of salt. I think it needs a pinch of oregano.”

Mom would sit and watch us debate with the hint of a smile on her face. I suspected she had cooked the lasagna so many times that she already knew exactly how much of each spice would make it absolutely delicious.

At the end of the night, when it was finally done, we’d gather around the kitchen table and proudly dish out our creation to Mom and Dad. We wouldn’t let mom serve us. “You’ve done enough already today,” we’d say. Mom and Dad would sit, sipping red wine, smiling at each other across the table.

“Delicious, as usual!” my dad would exclaim upon the first bite.

Sure, the whole scenario was slightly predictable, but it never got old. It was the stuff that wove the fabric of our relationships. It added depth and substance to our existences.

And now I’m doomed to a life of never being able to eat that mouth-watering food again, or share in those memories with my family.

I briefly wondered what new memories they had made since my death. If Kayla’s drastic change in the way she dressed was any indication of a change in her personality, I had a feeling that sitting around helping mom make lasagna wasn’t something she was interested in anymore.

What if I had never left? Would she still have gone in that direction, dressing like a tramp and smoking cigarettes? Or did the shock of my death force her to rebel?

I’d like to think that with my guidance Kayla wouldn’t be acting out like this, but what did I really know?

How had Mom and Dad had handled it?
To already suffer such a horrific tragedy, then your surviving daughter goes off the rails.

Do they go to therapy too?
I was surprised they were even able to make Kayla see a therapist. For all they knew, she might just be pretending to go and never actually turn up.

I knew it was selfish, but somehow the thought of Mom, Dad, and Kayla sitting around, eating pizza and laughing at bad reality TV was worse than
the thought of them mourning their loss of me. I didn’t want them to suffer, but I didn’t want to be forgotten, either.
I wonder if that makes me a horrible person?

It was Monday, the first official day of summer break. Henry left to meet Tad and some other guys at the outdoor basketball courts in the park. Both of his parents were gone.
I wonder where Mr. Matthews is right now?
I had figured he’d be at home, getting ready for his rendezvous.

I hadn’t heard from Lucas since the cemetery, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t been around to spy on me any, either. He had written me off and I was desperately trying to do the same.

Time for the new, Lucas-free me.
It was better that way.

Around 10:00
I headed to the bus stop. Since school was out, there was a greater chance of running into someone I knew. I had tucked my hair into a baseball cap, which I’d decided was the best and least obvious disguise.

It would take about half an hour by bus to get to midtown. I had
purposefully left extra early; I couldn’t risk not seeing Mr. Matthews arrive this time. I was determined to find out, for better or for worse, what he was up to.

By the time I got to the Hilton hotel, it was a quarter to 11. The bus ride had been
uneventful and
slow
: mostly empty and no sight of anyone I knew from school.

Everyone must be driving by now.
Everyone but me that is.
That was something else Henry had said he’d help me with this summer.

I walked into the huge lobby, trying to appear casual. It was a pretty generic hotel lobby, plush chairs scattered throughout, a bar on the far end near the elevators. I decided to sit in a chair perpendicular to the check-in desk. Grabbing a magazine from the table next to the chair, I plopped down and flipped it open, pretending to study its pages.

But I was really focused on the revolving door at the front. No way was I missing David’s arrival.

“Hurry up,” I muttered impatiently. At 5 minutes to 11, David Matthews breezed through the door. He looked calm, relaxed. I held the magazine up in front of my face and peered over the top, watching as he made his way to the check-in counter.

“Are you checking in today, sir?” the man behind the counter asked him.

“Yes,
” Mr. Matthews answered. “Jeff Smith is the name.”

He’s using a fake name!
This was awful. I had a huge pit in my stomach. I didn’t want to believe that this was really happening.

Maybe I should just lea
ve now? But then I’ll never find out the truth. How can I look Henry in the eye, knowing I was too much of a coward to go through with this?
I had to wait and watch everything unfold.

“Just
in town for one night,” ‘Jeff’ was saying. “And I’ll pay cash.”

So that’s how he can get away with using a fake name. He won’t have to show his ID.
Unless you’re a famous person, there’s absolutely no good reason to go incognito.

“
Here you go, sir. Room 411.” The man handed Mr. Matthews his key.

“Thank you very much,” he said, turning and heading for the elevators.

He’ll probably call his mistress and give her the room number to come meet him.

I waited a good two or three minutes after
Mr. Matthews had left the lobby before heading to the elevators.

I could hear the elevator whirring as it approached the ground floor. Finally, the shiny metal doors parted and I stepped inside. With shaking hands, I pressed the large round button with a 4 imprinted on it.
I tapped my foot anxiously as the elevator slowly ascended.

I was going to get to the bottom of this, and then I’d have to come clean with Henry about whatever I found out.

Ding
. The door opened and I stepped tentatively out into the corridor, nervously looking in each direction.

Phew. No sign of Mr. Matthews. He must already be in the room.

There was a placard in front of the elevator.
Rooms 421 – 442
with an arrow to the left.
Rooms 400 – 420
with an arrow to the right.

Here goes nothing.
I walked down the long hallway, reading the number on each door as I passed. Room 411 was on the left hand side. With a quick look to make sure nobody else was around, I pressed my ear against the door, straining to hear what was going on inside. Dead silence. I pulled my head back and double checked that I was at the right room.
Yep, 411. His whore must not be here yet.

The layout of the floor was in a square shape.
The hallway turned left in about 10 feet, leading to more rooms, I imagined.
I can probably hide there and peep around the corner when I hear the elevator.

That seemed like as good a plan as any. I headed to my hiding spot to wait. It was a couple of minutes past 11 now. Mr. Matthews seemed to get really
pissy when people were late; had he been stood up?

But I had been waiting for less than a minute when I heard the elevator
ding
as it stopped at floor 4. And then there were footsteps. Fast, heavy footsteps. I didn’t dare poke my head around to look yet. Whoever was meeting David would be walking straight towards me. I would have to wait until she was at the door of the room.

Knock, knock,
knock. 
Three brisk knocks.
This is it!
Before I could lose my nerve, I jutted my head out from around the corner.

What the-?
Immediately, I knew something was wrong
. I’ve got the wrong room. How could I have misheard? This can’t be right.

I stared in utter shock as the door slowly swung open. And there was Mr. Matthews. “You’re late!” he said. “Come on!”

The person entered the room and I stopped watching. I pressed my back against the wall, trying to digest what I had just seen.
Surely there’s been some mistake?

But the writing was on the wall, and to ignore it any longer would have just been foolish. I
would have never in a million years suspected this. But this had confirmed it. Mr. Matthews was in fact having an affair.

But what had shocked me to the core was that the person meeting him was a man.