Page 90 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

Me? My shit had every right to be turbulent.

I pointed toward Victoria. “How dare she? How dare she steal from our mother and then start talking about

what she wants to take before Mom is even cold in the ground.”

“Oh, like you really deserve anything,” Becky sneered. “It was your apartment building that killed her.”

My heart wrenched, and a spike of guilt dug deep into my soul. That fact had already been haunting me for over a week. I’d known it was dangerous for her to navigate those steps. She’d already fallen on them once, and I hadn’t found a new place for us to live.

Becky was right. It was my fault.

“Fine.” I faced away from all of them so I didn’t have to see five of my siblings glare at me as if I’d used my bare hands to murder Mom. “Go through the apartment, take whatever you want. I don’t care.”

I didn’t need any of her things to remember her. I just wanted her back.

I didn’t know what was worse: all my siblings browsing through my mother’s boxes full of things, remarking on all the old stuff they remembered from their childhood, oftentimes observing how tacky and gaudy it was, or all the neighbors who stopped by with food, telling me how sorry they were for my loss. I wanted to scream at every single one of them, ask why they hadn’t noticed Mom lying broken and hurt at the bottom of the stairs. Why hadn’t anyone heard her fall and helped her? And why did I feel guiltier with each casserole because I’d been gone and not there for her myself?

When a knock came on the door, at nearly seven in the evening, I about snapped. My refrigerator couldn’t hold any more pity food, and my patience couldn’t stand another “I’m so sorry.” I just wanted to be left alone.

No, actually, I wanted Isobel. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her. Not while I’d been picking out a casket, or flower arrangements, or watching my mother being lowered into the ground. I’d ached, just wanting her near, her hand to hold or body to hug, her rose scent calming my grief.

I kept wondering if she’d show up to be there for me. I was always looking for her. It was pathetic. She’d pushed me out, let a police officer arrest me to keep me away, and here, she was still the only thing I wanted.

So when I opened the door, and there she was, I nearly wept from the relief. Just seeing her made everything better. And yet worse.

It physically hurt to look at her. I’d shared so much with her, given her a piece of my soul, pressed my chest directly against her heartbeat, tasted her on my tongue, buried myself deeper in her than I’d ever been in anyone. And I could’ve sworn she’d given the same back to me. Yet she’d proven me wrong by shoving me from her life.

When I’d needed her most, she hadn’t been there.

Seeing her now stirred all that up, and still, I was ready to forget everything just for the chance to touch her one more time.

“You came,” I breathed out the word like a prayer of thanksgiving.

Lifting my fist to my mouth even as I stepped toward her, I needed to feel her against me. But then I realized someone was with her.

Her brother.

Ezra glared at me, his eyes narrowed with icy disdain. I returned my attention to Isobel, finally focusing on her face. She didn’t look very sympathetic for my loss. Her jaw was hard and eyes were a cold, frosted blue.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I just came to get my mother’s mirror back.”

At first, I was sure I’d misheard her. She couldn’t do that, certainly not today of all days. No one was that heartless. That evil.

She continued to stare at me, though, as if she fully expected me to go fetch the mirror for her. I stared back, positive this was all a mistake. I couldn’t have been this wrong about her. Yes, she’d been icy and standoffish at the beginning, but she’d only been trying to protect her own pain. She’d never been intentionally cruel.

But to mess with me on the day I buried my mother…

Who did that?

When I glanced toward her brother and asked, “Is she fucking serious?” he scowled back.

“Just go get the mirror, and we’ll be gone again.”

Get the mirror, huh? Oh, I would get the mirror. I’d get her goddamn precious mirror and break it right in front of her. Shatter it on the floor between us the same way she was shattering me.

Spinning away stonily, I left the door hanging open and retreated to my book bag I had sitting on the floor by the sofa sleeper. I still had clothes packed inside, ready to change into after running with her. The muscles in my chest clenched even tighter. I’d never run with her again.

After unzipping the front pocket, I pulled the mirror free, only for the grief to hit me all over again. My knees gave and I almost went to the floor. Such a small, old, scratched mirror, and giving it back was akin to dispensing with my humanity.

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