Page 45 of Hunter or Hunted

14

GWEN

A Week Later

Why did funerals always smell like this?

Some sickly cross between an old home with mildew in the basement and mothballs in the closets, but with the pungent edge of chemicals like you would encounter in a hospital. The décor was never any better. Dim sconces cast the most god-awful light onto the red and brown checkered carpet underfoot. Deep beige walls, almost brown, with cheap artwork. Always landscapes. A tree-covered hill. A snow-doused mountain. A beach before sunset. Every single mass-produced painting looked different, but always fit into those same parameters.

I understood the goal. Create a soft, relaxing environment. And a hundred years ago, sure, this vibe reminded people of their own homes in the evening. These days, most people kept their homes bright and airy—light walls, neutral flooring, and pops of color through plants and funky furniture.

Places like this weren’t calm and relaxing anymore. It didn’t feel like home. It felt like the dark and dreary place you came to mourn.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the goal was for it to feel dark and dreary.

Sebastian’s elbow rammed into mine. I shot him a look just as he murmured, “Sorry,” before returning to his collar. The black dress shirt went all the way to his neck. He kept yanking at it. Face turning red, he hooked his fingers beneath it and tugged.

“What’s the matter with you?” I whispered, doing my best not to disturb the others in line.

Half a dozen or so of us stood before a man at a pulpit. The funeral director, I assumed. In a hushed tone, he told the others to sign the book and then told them which direction to go. We’d already been here for ten minutes, and the line had barely moved. More people stood behind us.

“Damn button-up,” Sebastian said under his breath, holding on to his collar to give his Adam’s apple some room. “I can’t breathe in this thing.”

For a guy who wore scrubs at work, then T-shirts and flannels when he was finished, I couldn’t say I was surprised. “Just loosen a button or two.”

“I don’t want my chest hair hanging out.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to soothe his posture. “Fabio isn’t the vibe for a funeral.”

I swallowed a laugh. The people in front of me took a step forward. I followed. “You didn’t wear an undershirt?”

“Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.” Hazel eyes shifting around the room, he blew out another slow, even breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

And yet, I had never seen his cheeks so pink. “Are you?”

“I hate funerals.” A cherry pocket door on our left—a viewing room—rolled open. At the far end, an old lady lay inside a casket. Sebastian shuddered and looked away. “All the dead people everywhere. I don’t know, it just creeps me out.”

Playing that over in my mind, I blinked hard at him. “You see the irony in that, don’t you?”

“It’s different.” The people ahead of us took another step, and we did too. “When someone deserves it, it’s different. You know what I mean.”

Honestly, I didn’t. I still didn’t understand Sebastian’s moral compass. But hopefully I would have a better understanding of it by the time we left here.

The people ahead of us stepped away from the pulpit, thanking the funeral director for his time. As we came closer, the man gave us a sad, warm smile. “Hi there. Who are you here to see?”

“D–Allison,” I said. “Allison Kennedy.”

Any of the joy in his smile drizzled away. Frowning, he passed us a couple obituary cards. “Her ceremony is at the end of this hall on the left-hand side.”

“Thanks,” I said, starting in that direction.

I stood just before another one of those big pocket doors, Sebastian at my side, staring at the pink casket. A few people stood around, but I couldn’t look at them. All I could see was Delilah.

Even from here, I could tell it was her. The bouncy blonde curls. The little ski slope nose.

But my feet were cemented to the ground.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sebastian asked, trailing a hand over my back.

No. Yes. I didn’t know.