Carly Marino

Short Stories

Franken White

Carly's passion is creating deep and meaningful romances between characters. Her writing is driven by her excitement to whisk her readers into magical worlds where flaming swords can dissolve the barrier between heaven and hell, teenagers can manipulate memories, and mermaids walk among us.

In her personal life, Carly stays at home with her little angel, Brooke, and her Wheaton Terrior, Benson. She enjoys working out but only to compensate for her addiction to vanilla cupcakes.

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Short Stories

Franken White ~~ by Carly Marino

A clumsy mortician and his "undeadly-challenged" Snow White search for the reason behind her suspicious death and her even creepier awakening.

Franken White

Andrew Littleton swiped peppermint oil under his nose before he slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves and secured his surgical mask. His hands quivered as he aimed the metal sprayer over the girl’s abdomen. Why were his hands shaking? He'd embalmed plenty of dead bodies, not counting the ones he'd helped his father with as a child.

But this one was different.

Andrew sighed and turned the device handle. Water rained down, cleaning the blood that still stained her wrists.

Tonight, Fiona Burke wouldn’t celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday.

Neither would Andrew.

When he heard she was returning to Eastmerrow, he’d spent weeks “bumping” into her sister, Blair, hoping for an invitation to Fiona’s surprise party. After eight run-ins and six painful glasses of wine, listening to Blair babble about her ex, Andrew finally got one.

Andrew and Fiona hadn't spoken since graduation. Well, aside from a quick “hello” in passing, they hadn’t spoken much before that, either. He'd always been too shy to ask Fiona out.

As the son of the town mortician, not many girls wanted to hang around a funeral home, waiting for their date’s father to deliver a corpse so that they could borrow the hearse to dinner and a movie.

But now, Andrew was a few years shy of a medical degree, had traded his coke-bottle glasses for contacts, and grown into a pretty okay looking guy. Women always complimented his light blond hair, dark eyes, and long lashes.

Andrew rinsed the peppermint shampoo from Fiona's ebony locks, and the suds circled the drain. He lifted one of her eyelids before he sealed them shut, and then frowned at the creamy white that had stolen the vibrant electric blue.

He had admired Fiona as much as he found her beautiful. Despite her mom’s psychiatric hospitalization and her father passing away a year later, Fiona still managed to sparkle upon entering a room.

But Andrew had always known better. Behind the fake smile, Fiona had a buried sadness he’d seen many times in grieving families.

Now he’d never know why.

Everyone had secrets, even someone like Fiona.

Hell. Andrew had his share of secrets too. One in particular—a big one—that would change his life forever.

After his father’s lawyer had called him, Andrew should’ve left the small town. He no longer had to care for his father or hold up the family business.

But he couldn’t bring himself to move. Not until he at least tried to find Fiona.

Now that he had the means to take care of her, he’d hoped she might’ve considered dating a dorky guy like him. He could’ve whisked her away from whatever led her to end her life.

He could’ve changed everything.

Andrew’s shoulders drooped, and with an ache in his chest, he finished prepping the body.

After completion, he readied the formaldehyde mixture, and hummed, an annoying habit he’d picked up from his father. But, the little tune did help lighten the morbidity of his job. Usually, anyway.

This next step would be the hardest. He reached for the embalming machine’s hose to replaced her blood with the chemicals, but paused to gazed at her. She slept peacefully on his table like one of those princesses from the books his mother read to him before she died.

The fluorescent lights gleamed on Fiona’s porcelain face, highlighting her cheekbones and lips that had a surprising amount of color. Rose red—a feature Andrew had found extremely attractive in high school.

He placed a quick kiss on her lips. “I hope the next life is better to you than the first.”

The lights glowed brighter, zapped, and then flickered. Andrew snapped upright, shuddered, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His stomach wrenched. Why had he done that? He was losing it.

He peered at Fiona. “You’d gotten away from here. Why did you return to Eastmerrow?” It didn’t make sense.

He swiveled to the metal table behind him and picked up the clipboard to further investigate the coroner’s findings as well as the police report.

Doctor McGraven had ruled Fiona’s death a “classic” suicide but she hadn’t conducted any additional tests. In fact, from the time stamps, she’d preformed the autopsy way faster than normal.

Andrew tapped his pen on the table. Something didn’t feel right.

He flipped the page.

Mrs. Marshall-Burke had found Fiona on the bathroom floor, wrists slit, eyes open.

The tile had been scrubbed with bleach prior to the 911 call. Mrs. Marshall-Burke claimed the maid, Catalina Johnston, had cleaned it in respect to the family before she reported the suicide.

She was apprehended at her home and was now in custody at the Eastmerrow police department.

Andrew scanned the sheet and read aloud, “Family stated Fiona showed symptoms of schizophrenia similar to her mother, Angela Burke.”

The mental disorder was hereditary. So the possibility was—

A scream from behind jolted his heart. The clipboard clattered to the ground along with the medical tools on the table.

He whipped around. Eyes wide and pulse racing to the max, he stumbled backward.

Fiona sat up, her fingers searching her face. “My eyes. I can’t see.”

Andrew shuffled toward the door but tripped over a bulky extension cord. He collided with a metal pole, which rattled and clanged onto the floor. “Shit.”

“Who’s there?” Fiona didn’t flinch when she ripped the tubes from her jugular and carotid arteries. Blood seeped from the wounds. She smeared the crimson liquid across her collarbone and then inched off of the table. “I can hear you.”

Andrew scrambled to his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped down his temples. He rubbed his eyelids, but Fiona still staggered closer.

Had he fallen asleep?

He glanced at the wall clock. Six a.m. He’d been here all night. He pinched his arm and patted his cheeks. Wake up, Andrew.

This was ridiculous. There had to be a scientific explanation. Maybe he’d missed something. Rigor had set in prior to her body’s arrival, but his father always told him to check the vitals, anyway, just in case.

Once he’d ruled her dead, Andrew massaged her limbs to break up the stiffness. His stomach rolled over, hot flush rushed to his face, and he put his hands behind his back. Now he felt like he’d violated the poor girl. He removed his latex gloves and tossed them into the trash.

No. Fiona Burke was dead.

Andrew gripped the side of his head. Yet here she was, knocking into medical equipment and tripping over her feet. She’d been much more graceful in high school.

What the hell was he thinking?

“Marco,” she whispered.

A chill swept up his spine and prickled the nape of his neck. Deep breaths. He’d check her again. To prove to himself this whole thing was a fluke.

“F - f - Fiona, I - I. . .” He cleared his throat. Get it together, Andrew. You’re almost a doctor for Christ’s sake. “I’m Andrew Littleton. How are you feel. . .” Great. Real smart. Why not ask her how her day is going too?

Fiona put her hands on her slender hips. “How am I what? Feeling? Like I got hit by a bus and woke up blind.”

Andrew averted his gaze from her naked body. He removed a folded white sheet from the cabinet and wrapped the fabric around Fiona’s shoulders. She huddled, hugging it closer to her chest.

“You’re not blind. I,” Andrew scratched his head, “your eyelids are glued shut.”

“What?” Fiona’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why? What happened to me? Are you some kind of psychopath? I’m not one of those stupid girls that run up the stairs when they should go out the front door. I’m a fighter.”

He didn’t doubt it. “I’m not a. . . psychopath.”

Andrew guided her back to the table, her icy skin cooling his fingers. He examined the glue, exhaled, and touched her lashes. He’d have to soak it off.

As if she heard his thoughts, Fiona groaned. “Let me do it.” She tucked the sheet around her breasts and with her index fingers and thumbs, she pried open her eyelids.

He cringed.

“See, no biggie.” She opened and closed her eyes. “Why is everything so blurry?”

Andrew rushed to the sink, grabbed a cloth, and dampened it with hot water. He dabbed Fiona’s eyes to wipe off the remaining residue and fallen lashes, and then cleaned the blood around her chest and neck wounds.

He set the cloth down. “Better?”

“Much.”

Andrew motioned to the table, and Fiona arched her brow. “Seriously? You want me to climb back up there?” She glanced about the room. “I told you. You’re not going to do any sicko things to me.”

“You’re joking? Sicko things? I have to close your wounds. Unless you don’t mind blood leaking everywhere.”

She huffed, and Andrew struggled to tie the vessels closed and suture the incisions, while steadying his twitchy muscles.

He tossed the sealant onto the counter.

“Not the best doctor, are you?”

He scowled. “I’m a mortician.”

Her mouth gaped, and she maneuvered until the table wedged between them. “A mortician?”

“Yeah, you’re—”

Voices echoed from the hallway. Moisture gathered on Andrews palms. What would happen when they walked in and saw Fiona alive? Well, somewhat alive, anyway.

He directed her to the table. “Lay down.”

“What? No.”

“You’ve got to. You’re dead.”

“I’m what? You’re mad, and I’m—”

“I’m sure Andrew won’t mind if I pop in and say hello,” the female voice said from the hallway.

“He doesn’t usually like visitors, but if you let me. . .”

Fiona’s white eyes blew wide. “Shit. That’s my step-sister. Hide me.”

Andrew massaged his forehead, then gestured to the table.

Fiona scooted and lay flat on the aluminum. “Cover me.”

Andrew spread the sheet over her. His heart raced, and his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Ma’am, please.”

The door burst open, and Blair Marshall sashayed in—literally, she sashayed.

Andrew's Uncle Dave mouthed the word, "Sorry," before closing the door and leaving Andrew with a walking, talking, corpse, and her intolerable sister.

Blair's honey-blonde hair swished over her shoulders in big curls. She wore a heap of black liner around her green eyes, and her pink lipstick was blinding in the artificial light.

She was the stereotypical beauty: large breasts, skinny waist, curvy hips, shiny hair. . . The list went on. But Andrew never found her attractive, not in the slightest.

She was cold and unkind.

Blair stepped around turned-over tables, machines, and medical tools. "What the hell happened in here?"

"I. . . tripped."

She brushed her French manicured hands down the seams of her white pants. "Oh. I wanted to stop by to ask you. . ." She craned her neck. "Is that her? Can I see?"

Andrew shifted between Blair and Fiona. Or whatever one would call her. Zombie? No. That was insane. Was he insane? He could be. His psych professor had said mental illness often showed signs later in life.

It had for Fiona.

"Andrew?" With a challenging raise of her brow, Blair cupped her hips.

Andrew blinked. "Uh—sorry. No. She's not finished yet. Did you. . . Um, need something?"

Blair flashed her six-years-of-braces white teeth and ambled to Andrew. "So, you're coming. Yes?"

“To where? The funeral? I was planning on it.”

She toyed with the badge secured to the pocket of his light green scrubs. “No, silly. Fiona’s birthday.”

“You’re still throwing it? Why? What about her funeral?”

Blair jerked back her hand. “Who cares about some boring funeral? I have tons of RSVPs. Guests are traveling in from everywhere to see me. Just because Fiona,” she waved a hand, “chose to do this to herself doesn’t mean she’s going to ruin my party.”

Andrew gaped. How could she talk about her sister this way? Fiona had just died.

“I think you should go, Blair.”

She touched his face, and his cheek tensed. “I hope you come.”

This woman would never take no for an answer. He lowered her arm. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there. But I have to finish my work first. So, if you don’t mind.”

She held up her hands. “Okay, doctor, I get it. I’ll see you tonight. And. . . take a shower, a long one. This place smells awful.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Uh - yeah.”

Blair paused before striding into the hall. She set a piece of paper on the table by the door and tapped her finger on it. “My mother decided to cremate her instead. A funeral would’ve brought too much gloom to my party.” She winked. “Get a tux for tonight. It’s a black tie event.” And then she disappeared into the hall.

Andrew exhaled and braced himself on the metal table. Too close. Seconds earlier and she would’ve walked in on Fiona. Fiona. He turned to the exam table and peeled back the sheet.

She lay peacefully, her arms folded across the y-shaped stitches that curved under her breasts to her navel.

Andrew rested his finger under her nose. Nothing.

He fumbled for his stethoscope on the counter. After putting the earpieces in, he placed the cold chestpiece to her breastbone. No heartbeat. He moved it around, listening for anything.

He laughed out loud. What the hell was he doing? He’d been up way too late. Fiona Burke was dead, and he was obviously crazy.

He shook his head and hummed his father’s tune as he knelt and collected the arterial tubes from the white tile floor. Yep, lack of sleep. He was suffering from exhaustion. Everything made sense now. He just needed sleep.

He rose, and the table was empty.

Chills quivered his limbs. He lifted the crumpled sheet.

No. No. This wasn’t happening. His breath hitched.

“Fiona?” he whispered.

“You’re dating Blair? She’s such a bitch.”

He jumped, spun, and collided with the embalming pump. It rattled, and the wheels scraped on the floor. “How did you get over there? You’re. . .”

She snatched the sheet and wrapped it around her chest. “Alive. I think we’ve established this already. I can’t believe you’re dating Blair.”

“I was going to say dead.” He crossed his arms. “And I’m not dating her. I wanted to. . . Never mind. Listen, I have a job to do. So you need to, I don’t know, get dead again so I can do it.” Andrew pinched the bridge of his nose. “How am I going to explain this to your family?”

She laughed and hopped onto the table. “My family doesn’t give two shits about me. They’re probably throwing that party to celebrate my death.”

Andrew blew out a quick breath. “This is so messed up. How are you not freaking out?”

Fiona shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a brain or a heart, or well, anything, really.”

Andrew breathed into his hands. “They put the organs back in after the autopsy, but the possibility of them functioning is. . . Why am I even contemplating this? It’s impossible. This can’t be happening.”

“Get it together.” She tapped her index finger on her lips. “I have an idea, but I’m going to need something from you.”

“Oh, yeah. What could you possibly need?”

“Well, clothes for starters.”

Andrew gawked. “Clothes? You aren’t leaving here? If anyone sees you. . . No. Out of the question. Lay down.”

She slid off the table and moved closer to him. Close enough, he smelled the peppermint lotion he used to mask the “dead body” smell.

“What will people think if I waltz out of here all Walking Dead? Do you really want the start of the apocalypse on your conscience? You’re going to help me find my murderer and straighten all of this out.”

“You’re blackmailing me? What about the cremation, huh? Your family expects your ashes.”

She smirked. “Burn me. I dare you.”

“I’m not going to burn you, Fiona.” Andrew dropped his head back. “But you should know this is pointless. You weren’t murdered. You committed suicide.”

Fiona examined her wrists. “You should know better than anyone what a post-mortem wound looks like, and these, my dear Andrew, are post-mortem.”

He couldn’t deny the signs. There skin surrounding the edges of the wounds wasn’t stained, and the clotting. . . No. The coroner hadn’t mentioned anything about post-mortem wounds in her report. Doctor McGraven usually took extra care in her findings. Andrew had never found a discrepancy before.

This was mad. If he helped Fiona, he’d be giving in to his delusions.

He paced. Paused. Paced. “I try not to question the coroner. It’s not my job.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “Well, it should be. Maybe that’s why I’m here. To, I don’t know, straighten your moral compass.”

He massaged his temples, then observed the gashes on her wrists. “What’s your dominant hand?”

“What? I’m a lefty. Why?”

“You’re not ambidextrous?”

“No.”

Andrew’s gaze drifted upward, and he blew out a long breath. The horizontal slit on her left wrist was as precise as the one on her right. In theory, her left cut should be deeper or uneven. Both of hers went straight across, evenly from one wrist to the next as if someone had held both hands side-by-side and dragged a blade across.

Fiona was right. She’d been murdered.

When Fiona stepped out of the master bathroom in Andrew’s apartment, he covered his smile with his hand. He couldn’t help himself. In his royal blue college hoody, running pants, and baseball cap, she looked adorable.

Her red lips stretched into a crooked smile. “What are you laughing at?”

Andrew shrugged. “Do you want to go to the women’s clothing boutique in town? I can. . . buy you some clothes in your size.”

She shook her head. “I can’t waltz in there, not in this small-ass town. Sneaking me out of the morgue in a body bag was hard enough. Thankfully, I don’t have to breathe.”

He coughed. “Yeah, thankfully. So what now?”

“For starters, you can get me a pair of sunglasses.” She examined her eyes in his closet mirror. “These eyes are a dead giveaway. Pun intended.”

He stood from the bed, searched his dresser for a pair of aviators, and handed them to her.

She slid the glasses onto the bridge of her nose and exhaled. “Much better.”

Andrew strolled into his small living room. He could afford much better, especially now, but he preferred simplicity. Neutral colors, big windows with a view of the mountains, and an updated kitchen to prepare gourmet meals.

He opened the stainless steel refrigerator. Stacks of leftovers in clear containers crowded the shelves. Sadly, most of the food he chefed-up went to waste—the downfall of cooking for one.

He closed the door and glanced at Fiona, still lingering outside the bedroom. “You hungry?”

“I don’t think so.” She arched an eyebrow. “Can I even eat?”

Andrew drummed his fingers on the gray speckled granite countertop. “Probably not. But, you also shouldn’t be standing in my living room. So it’s a possibility.”

Fiona laughed. The sound tickled in Andrew’s ears. “True.”

Andrew shifted to the cupboard, grabbed a granola bar, and met Fiona in the living room. Two of his cats weaved through her legs, nuzzling her ankles. She patted another stretched out on the back of the couch, and then lifted a frame from an end table.

His mouth curved down. The photo was of his father and him before his father’s diagnosis. Andrew had gotten into med school, and they went out to celebrate.

Fiona’s perfect front teeth nibbled on her lower lip, then her mouth gaped. “Wait a minute. Andrew Littleton. Holy shit. It’s been what? Ten years?”

He cleared his throat. “Eight.”

“Huh. So you took over the family business?”

His neck heated. “I wanted to be a Forensic Medical Examiner, but midway through med school, my father got sick. Cancer.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I dropped out and helped him at work. He passed away a few months ago.”

Fiona lowered her sunglasses. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” Andrew raked his fingers through his blond hair. “So. . . what’s the last thing you remember, before,” his gaze flicked to her wrists and she rolled her hands over them, “before that happened.”

She hummed. “The cab dropped me off at my house around eight-thirty p.m. Florists were loading huge bouquets of white flowers into a van parked in front.”

“Flowers? For what?”

“Hilda stages all of her parties the day prior. Heaven forbid the guests didn’t like the damn flowers.” Fiona scowled. “Anyway, she was admiring her reflection in the hallway mirror, talking to herself, like always. So I snuck past and nearly knocked over her maid as she rushed a bottle of white wine into the sitting room.

“Then I dropped my bag in my bedroom, came back downstairs, and,” her gaze drifted to the right, “I found a glass of cider in the kitchen with a sticky note. It said: Welcome home, Fiona.” A soft smile rose on her face. “My mom’s favorite time of year was fall. She loved apple cider and always had a fresh batch in the fridge. She wasn’t the greatest mom, but boy did she make a good cider. I thought maybe Hilda was actually glad I came home.” She scoffed. “Joke’s on me, huh?”

“No, Fiona, the joke’s on them. Because here you are.”

She fiddled with the ends of her hair. “I guess.”

Andrew spun the decorative glass bowl that his grandmother had given him on the kitchen table. “Do you think she poisoned the cider?”

Fiona pinched her lower lip. “It’s possible. Except, you said the coroner didn’t find traces of anything.”

“You’d have been sick, too.”

She gasped. “I do remember feeling dizzy. I crawled to my bathroom and yelled for help, but all I heard was Hilda cackling with her friend downstairs. What a bitch. I’m dying in my room, and she’s drinking wine, laughing.”

Andrew’s gut squeezed. “I’m sorry, Fee.”

Her head tilted slightly, and her lips curved into a soft smile. “My dad used to call me Fee.”

Heat circled Andrew’s cheeks and nipped at his ears. He averted his gaze as he made sense of the dead girl drowning in his clothing. “I have to deliver your ashes tomorrow. Any thoughts?”

“Call Blair.”

“Why?”

“I bet they don’t even want them.”

“Your mom might.”

“Step-mom, and Hilda Marshall-Burke doesn’t care if I’m dead. She’s at the top of my suspect list.”

He sighed, picked up his cell phone, and then swiped the screen to find Blair’s number.

She answered on the first ring. “Andrew! I’m so happy you called. I forgot to tell you this morning that I’m free for lunch after your appointment.”

Shit. He forgot about his doctor’s appointment. He swallowed. “Uh. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh. Then what is it?” she snapped.

“I was curious what you wanted me to do with Fiona’s ashes. I can drop them by your house if you—”

“Ewe. No. Toss them. We have plenty of photos to remember her. We don’t need a jar of dirt.”

Andrew’s heart sank. He sighed heavily. “All right.”

Someone yelled in the background.

“Coming mother,” Blair called back. “I gotta go. See you soon, love.”

Andrew’s shoulders tensed, and he hung up the phone. He hated he had to tell Fiona her family didn’t want her ashes. Well, someone else’s ashes.

The morgue had a closet full of unclaimed urns. Some families just didn’t want them. But he’d never had to break the news to the deceased.

“Stop looking so glum,” Fiona said. “I knew they wouldn’t want them. The Marshalls hated me. They wanted my father’s family money, and he left it to them. I couldn’t afford college, so I moved to New York City and waited tables.”

A chorus of meows came from the bedroom. Three more of Andrews cats trotted into the kitchen. He opened the pantry, grabbed the dry food from the shelf, and shook the box into the small dishes lined against the wall.

Fiona chortled. “How many cats do you own?”

Warmth tingled on Andrew’s ears. He massaged his neck. “Seven.”

“Seven? I can’t lie, Andrew. That’s a little creepy.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess it is. I was never a cat person, but when people die, their cats go to a shelter. These kittens were only a few weeks old. I didn’t want to separate them.” He pointed at each one. “Blick, Flick, Glick, Plick, Snick, Whick, and Quee.”

Fiona brushed her hair from her face. “Those are the strangest names I’ve ever heard.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Snow White was my favorite fairytale as a kid.”

“Oh, so they’re supposed to be the dwarfs? I’m pretty sure there was a Dopey and Bashful.”

He smiled. “The names are from the Broadway play.”

“You’re very strange, Andrew Littleton.”

“I can’t argue that.” He circled the counter and rested his back on the edge of the breakfast bar. “Why’d you come back to Eastmerrow?”

She crossed her arms. “Blair called and said her mother forged my father’s will. I came back to get what’s mine. The house, my father’s art gallery, and my mother’s freedom. I know Hilda had her locked up. Then she murdered my father and me. And now that I’m dead, she has power of attorney over my mother, and she’ll probably kill her too.”

“What about Blair? Isn’t it suspicious you died shortly after she called? Why didn’t you talk to her earlier?”

“When I was naked and covered in autopsy battle wounds? I’m sure she would’ve given me a big hug.”

Andrew nodded. “Good point.”

“Blair didn’t kill me. She’s terrible but not the devil. Hilda on the other hand. . .”

Andrew rubbed his throat. Hilda was pure evil.

Andrew trembled the entire walk to his optometrist and not from the chill in the autumn air, but from the dead body strolling, head down, next to him. Fiona had insisted on tagging along, which seemed silly considering she wouldn’t even go to the clothing store. Why was the eye doctor any different? Especially since her step-sister worked there.

He angled to look at Fiona. She’d tucked her hair inside one of Andrew’s winter hats and wrapped a belt around his running pants to hide the boxers with cartoons of Santa-in-a-hot-tub. Not that the embarrassing underwear would show, anyway. She swam in his puffy jacket.

With each of her steps, she dropped her shoulder in a jerky, unnatural, motion and pulled up her pants. . . By the crotch.

He spat out a chuckle. “Stop walking like that.”

“I’m imitating a dude.”

“No. You’re imitating a zombie, and people are staring.”

Fiona turned her head slightly as Mrs. Glover—the sixty-five-year-old woman known for her elaborate stories at the hair salon—scooped up her Maltipoo. She gave them a pointed look. “Andrew, who is this hooligan? Did he get shot in the leg?”

Andrew scratched his temple. “Mrs. Glover, this is my cousin, Frankie.”

“What up, Mrs. G. I ain’t gonna cause no trouble,” Fiona said in a deep voice, and then did an awkward hand gesture.

“We don’t need trouble in our town, Andrew.” Mrs. Glover cringed and scurried past.

Andrew whispered to Fiona, “Mrs. G?”

“Well, she bought it.” She quickened her pace, dropping the zombie strut.

He caught up to her. “Thankfully.”

She paused and peered into a large window. “Yeah.”

Andrew followed her gaze to the gallery. In middle school and high school, he’d dropped in many times to get a glimpse of the beautiful dark-haired girl, working behind the counter.

Paintings still decorated the white walls. High-top tables dotted the once vast light wood floors, and a wine bar lined the far corner. No one appreciated the art. They simply flicked a hand to the wait staff for another drink.

“My dad loved abstract art, but he had a knack for portraits. He could evoke emotions by creating subtle shadows.” Fiona placed her hand on the glass. “Before my dad died, this place buzzed with buyers from all over.”

Andrew’s chest clenched. “Your dad was really talented.”

She inhaled a deep breath and continued down the cobblestone walkway. “He was.”

Her fingers brushed his and warmth soared up his arm. His heart thrummed. But despite the flutters in his chest, Andrew inched away.

Fiona was dead. Having feelings for someone with no pulse was unnatural. His insides roiled, and he swallowed. Wasn’t it?

No. Corpses didn’t talk.

He stopped at the entrance to his optometrist. “Where do you want me to meet you? This shouldn’t take too long.”

Fiona adjusted her winter hat. “You’re not going to your appointment. You need to get Blair outside to talk.”

“Now, you want to talk to her?”

“I’m not going to. You are.”

“But what about my appointment? It takes a month to get one and—”

She groaned. “Fine. Do your appointment and then get Blair to meet you out back, in the alley.”

His jaw dropped. “The alley? No way. Blair will think I’m crazy.”

“Good point. You are talking to a dead girl.” Fiona gave him a slight shove. “Just go."

Doctor Sanderson waved at Andrew, and then disappeared into another patient room. Andrew ambled toward the front desk. Blair wasn’t there when he arrived. Maybe she’d taken her lunch break early. Man, would he be in luck.

“Rachel, can you hand me Mr. Harris’s chart?” Blair barked from around the corner. “Um, now.”

Andrew’s breath hitched. Dammit. All right, if he kept his cool no one would notice the quiver of his hand or the dark spots that dampened the back of his shirt. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then shook them.

No big deal. He would waltz up to Blair and ask her to accompany him outside. Easier said. The closer he staggered to the reception desk the more the striped wallpaper rippled in waves. He wiped the sweat from his brow and stumbled into a table nearly spilling the decorations. He steadied the wood-carved anchor on top and crept to the reception desk.

“Name,” Blair mumbled without glancing up.

Andrew cleared his throat. “A-Andrew Littleton.”

“Andrew! Hi.” She fluffed her hair. Her eyelids hovered halfway over her eyes. “How can I help you?”

Andrew rubbed his hands together. “Uh, I need. . .”

She licked her teeth. “Anything, darling.”

“Um.” He pointed at the pile of small, rectangular boxes next to her mouse pad. “Are those the trial ones?”

“What?” She glanced down. “Oh, yes.”

“May I have a few?”

“For what?”

“I’m thinking about getting colored ones.”

She nibbled her bottom lip, leaned forward, and squeezed her breasts together with her arms. “Well, unfortunately, all we have right now is brown. And seeing as you have—”

“I’ll take them! All of them.”

“All of them?”

Andrew coughed into his fist. “Yes. Please.”

Her fingers trailed her collarbone. “We still on for Fiona’s party?”

Andrew glared. “It’s not Fiona’s party, seeing as she’s dead.”

Blair bit her fingertip. “Good. Do you want to go to lunch? I can get out of here in five.”

Blair was really pushing hard today.

Andrew blew out a breath. Desperate times.

He arched over, attempting a seductive smirk. Girls liked cocky guys. Right? “I can’t do lunch today, but can you meet me out back? To talk.”

Her eyes lit up as she stood and pulled down on her low cut shirt. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Great. And Blair?”

“Hmm?”

“You can put those boxes in a bag. Please.”

She scurried back to her desk, opened a paper bag, and brushed the boxes inside. Andrew smiled. He strolled into the hallway, and Blair Marshall emerged from around the corner.

She handed him the bag, and slid her arm in his. “This way.”

They walked out the side door and into the alley. After the metal latch clicked behind them, Blair dove at him.

He stumbled backward. “What are you doing?”

She snuggled uncomfortably close. “I’m cold.” She peeked up. “What did you want to ask me?”

His heart pounded. He tried to wriggle away, but her fingernails clutched his lower back. He winced. She rubbed her body against his and Andrew’s stomach rocked. Fiona hid somewhere nearby. She didn’t need to see this. Shoot. He didn’t need to see this.

“Uh. It’s about,” Andrew gulped, “about. . .”

Blair’s hands glided to the front of his jeans. Her fingers toyed with the button. What was she doing? His skin crawled.

She jerked backward. “Ouch!”

Her butt hit the pavement, and Fiona loomed over her.

Andrew pressed against the brick wall. Spots danced in front of him. His pulse thrashed in his ears, and his throat ached from his excessive swallowing.

Fiona whipped out the scalpel his father had given him when he got into med school. Where had she found it? Now his precious memory was pointed at Blair’s neck.

Blair squealed.

Fiona nicked her skin. “Listen here, bitch,” she said in her terrible man-voice. “What do you know about Daniel Burke’s will?”

“Let me go,” Blair whimpered.

Fiona unsnarled her fist from Blair’s blonde strands. “Fiona told me about your conversation.”

Blair stood and brushed the alley-grime from her knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fiona jabbed the blade toward Blair’s heart. “I have nothing to lose. Don’t test me.”

Blair scoffed. “You won’t get a dime of our family’s money. I only called Fiona to get her here for Andrew, since he was searching for her.”

Andrew’s neck itched and heated. He scratched the side of his head and shrugged. Fiona angled her chin at him, and he envisioned a quizzical look behind her aviator sunglasses.

Fiona redirected to Blair. “Why would you care if Andrews was looking for me?”

“Can you put down the knife? Please.”

Fiona dropped her arm.

Blair patted her chest and blew out a breath. “My mother is insufferable. Did you know my father had a heart attack like Fiona’s dad? I know Hilda murdered him, too.”

“Not surprised. Albert was an asshole,” Fiona mumbled.

“What?”

Andrew cleared his throat. “What did you think would happen once Fiona came back here?”

“I read your father’s will.”

“Oh.” He adjusted his shirt collar. “I forgot you worked part-time at my father’s, lawyer’s firm.”

Blair shivered, and Andrew slinked out of his coat, but Fiona shook her head. He sighed and yanked on his jacket.

Blair hugged her arms around her chest. “The firm was transferring their files to digital when I found your father’s will; I saw an opportunity to finally be free of my mother. It was obvious you had a thing for Fiona since you hounded us for her address after your father died.

“So I called her, knowing she’d reject you, and you’d need someone to pick up the pieces. That, someone, was going to be me.” Her shoulders curled forward. “I wanted to leave Eastmerrow. Ever since Angela moved in a few weeks ago, things have gotten worse.”

“Wait. A few weeks ago? But I - Fiona just got home a few days ago. Her mother was released and didn’t call her?” Fiona asked in her real voice.

Blair squinted. “What did you say your name was?”

Andrew pivoted between them. “Frankie. My cousin. I’ll see you at the party.”

“Whatever.” Blair shuffled toward the door and disappeared inside.

Andrew exhaled, his heart racing and his head spinning. “That was close.”

No answer.

“Fee?” He glanced at the alley’s opening as Fiona plodded around the corner.

Fiona hadn’t spoken the entire walk to Andrew’s apartment. So instead of following her inside, he’d handed her his keys to give her time to process the truth: she’d returned to Eastmerrow for nothing, and now she was dead.

Andrew’s chest tightened, and he moseyed outside Sneewittchen’s, the quaint woman’s clothing boutique in town. Fake red roses decorated baskets in front of the black-shuttered windows. Birds chirped from a constant audio track that played from speakers above the entrance.

He beamed at the shopping bags in his hands, proud of Dorothea, the shopkeeper’s, choices. He couldn’t wait to show Fiona what he’d gotten her. He hoped the surprise would cheer her up, make her smile, and put light back into her creepy white eyes.

The wooden shop door swung open and Dorothea blew out a breath. “Andrew, thank goodness you haven’t left yet.”

He turned to the short German woman, who then passed him a black garment bag. “You almost forgot the most important purchase. Lovely choice. This dress was meant for a woman with skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony. Your Fiona, yes?”

He shuddered as a cold draft lifted the hairs on his arms. “How’d you. . .”

Dorothea winked. “Stories such as this were my Wilhelm’s passion. May he rest in peace.”

He adjusted his weight from one side to the other. “So you know how this happened?”

“The same as every story, I assume. But that’s something you’ll need to discover on your own.”

He scuffed his shoe on the pavement. “Thanks.”

“Oh, one more thing.” She retrieved a palm-sized, emerald ring box and dropped it into one of his bags. “You’ll need this.”

“Dorothea!” The front door cracked against the yellow shingles, and Doctor McGraven burst through, her floor-length gown hitched up to her knees. “I need another size. I don’t have much time to. . .Andrew?”

Andrew cocked his head and squinted at the middle-aged woman. Oversized glasses held back her muddy-brown hair, and she’d fake-tanned to a radioactive shade of orange. “Doctor McGraven? What are you doing here?”

She straightened, dropped the hem of her dress, and smoothed the beaded bodice. “Fiona’s party is tonight.” She glared at poor Dorothea. “Which is why I need a smaller size, now.”

“I hope you get your happily ever after, Andrew.” Dorothea patted her silver hair and ambled on leaden feet back into the store.

Doctor McGraven nodded at Andrew. “Good day.”

“You’re actually going to this party?”

“Are you dense? Of course, I’m going. I’m Hilda’s sister.”

“You’re Fiona’s aunt? I’m so sorry for your loss. Doing the autopsy must’ve been hard. I’m surprised they allowed it.”

“Yes, well, Fiona was a troubled girl, and her death was an open-and-shut case.”

He set half his bags onto the cobblestone walkway. “Before I head home, I have a question about the report.”

Doctor McGraven lowered her glasses to the bridge of her nose. She pursed her thin lips. “Do you, now?”

“Why didn’t you test Fiona for other causes of death? Her wounds seemed post-mortem.”

“Like I said, open-and-shut case. And what would you know about post-mortem wounds? You’re a med school dropout.” She threw her arms up and opened the shop door. “Dorothea, just put the dress on my sister’s account. I’ll have her maid alter it.” She narrowed her eyes at Andrew. “Hilda owes me.”

Andrew entered his apartment to find Fiona hunched over his desk in the living room, staring intently at his laptop.

He dropped the bags in his room and then placed the small ring box on the edge of the desk. He waited, but Fiona didn’t acknowledge him or his gift. She didn’t even peek from the screen.

A hollowness built in his chest. Was she mad at him?

He settled onto the couch and did everything he could to get comfortable, but his leg wouldn’t stop jiggling. He held his thigh to refrain from pacing the room.

Act casual.

Andrew lifted a medical journal from the coffee table. He leafed through the pages but kept his eyes on Fiona.

What could she possibly be feeling?

He vowed, right then, to get her out of that town and give her a better second life.

Fiona spun in the desk chair. “You’re not going to believe this, but Hilda went to high school with my mother. It says they were on the cheer squad together.”

The tension in Andrew’s shoulders released. She wasn’t mad. “Small world.”

She tapped her foot. “Why would my mother move in with Hilda? Better yet, why would Hilda check my mom out of the mental hospital?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She had to know Hilda killed my dad. Blair’s too. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner. Both of Hilda’s husbands died of a heart attack. She should be in prison.”

Andrew stood from the leather sofa and ambled to Fiona. His throat burned from the sadness on her face. He knelt next to her. “She should, but unfortunately, money can buy freedom.”

“No crap.” Her front teeth bit into her crimson lips. “Andrew, why were you searching for me? What was in your father’s will that made you want to find me of all people? We rarely spoke.”

He rose and strolled to the wall of windows. Outside, the snow-peaked mountains touched the puffy clouds, and orange, yellow, and cardinal leaves shaded the forest below. He loved this view.

Fiona’s father had painted a scene like this, almost as if he’d stood in this exact spot. Andrew had walked past the gallery a hundred times, contemplating on buying it.

Peppermint shampoo awakened his senses. Warmth ignited in his chest as Fiona’s arms wrapped around his waist. He slacked. His heart throbbed, and his breathing slowed.

She hugged him. “You can tell me.”

He turned to her and cradled her face with his hand. His thumb circled the rosy apple of her cheek. He wanted to kiss her. His entire body wanted to kiss her, to touch her. But how could he?

Scientifically, Fiona was dead. But did her standing before him change things?

He drew her closer, inhaling her dark hair. She didn’t smell dead.

“Andrew?”

He shimmied out of her embrace. “I’m not a stalker if that’s what you’re asking me. I just always felt connected to you somehow.” He plopped down onto the couch. “God, maybe I am a stalker.”

“You’re not.” Fiona stepped around the glass coffee table and slid in next to him. “Truthfully, I thought about you after I left Eastmerrow. I guess, I thought maybe you understood me.”

Andrew’s hand cradled his forehead. “Why’s that?”

“Hilda did everything she could to make my life hell in and out of our home. But I refused to let her get to me. At least, on the outside, anyway.

I remember bumping into you in the hall just before graduation. The way you looked at me. You saw me. Really, saw me. Didn’t you?”

Andrew met her eyes and nodded. He remembered that moment too. She wore a canary-yellow t-shirt that brought out her eyes. They didn’t speak, but stood there a moment. He’d felt it too—the connection and the understanding.

Fiona pursed her lips. “I think you’re right about us. We have some kind of bond.” She winked. “You did wake me from the dead. That’s got to mean something. Right?”

He chuckled. “I always did like zombie movies.”

“Ick. Don’t call me that. The PC term is undeadly challenged.”

He laughed. “That makes no sense, but it’s cute as hell.”

Her hand drifted down his arm until she laced her fingers in his. He adjusted until he faced her.

Fiona Burke might be dead by definition, but Andrew couldn’t deny the tingles he got from her nearness or the excitement in his chest when she smiled. Her touch warmed his body in ways he couldn’t explain.

His fingers stroked her dark hair. He arched over, brushed his mouth across hers, but instead of taking her in his arms and enjoying the taste of her lips; he kissed her cheek. “Even in death, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Her fair skin brightened to a sweet pink. She covered her mouth and snickered. “Well except for these freakish white eyes.”

Andrew’s heart leaped, flip-flopped, and danced in his chest. A huge grin stretched on his face. “That reminds me.” He hopped to his feet, skipped to his computer desk, and retrieved the untouched, velvet ring box.

He fumbled, almost dropping it onto the floor. His muscles twitched with nervousness. Yet, an excited giddiness also put a pep in his step. Part of him wanted to laugh; the other part wanted to run out the door.

Goosebumps prickled his arms, and his hands shook. He knelt on one knee in front of Fiona.

She scooted backward, her hand flush to her chest. “Uh. . .what are you doing?”

He beamed.

Andrew carved paths in the hallway of his apartment, pausing once or twice to straighten the black bow tie choking him. His fingers fidgeted with the cufflinks on his tailored shirt, and his dress shoes tapped on the floor.

Tonight would go as planned. Fiona would get her justice, or at the very least, she’d escape this town.

After weeks of worrying, he’d finally called his family, and they’d made all the arrangements. His nerves still bounced around from the conversation. It could’ve gone very badly, but instead, they had welcomed him. They’d do the same for Fiona.

What was taking her so long?

She hated the dress he bought her. Maybe he’d gotten a size too large. He froze. Or too small. Both would insult her. He should check to be sure.

He crept to the bedroom door. It swung open, and Fiona glided outside. He sucked in a breath. She was stunning. The classy, floor length, navy-blue gown accentuated every curve of her body. Pearls rested on her collarbone and matched the teardrop earrings. She had gathered her hair into an up-do of black curls that exposed her sensual neckline.

Her eyes connected with his, and he nodded. “The contacts look good.”

“I could get used to brown eyes.” She spun. “Can you zip me?”

Andrew blew out the air that burned in his lungs. He stepped behind her and heat flooded his lower body. Her lacy bra and underwear peeked from the opening.

He blushed, turned his head, and closed the zipper. His fingers lingered on the nape of her neck, and she sighed.

“You look lovely,” he whispered.

She smiled. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. Littleton. Let's get this show on the road.”

Andrew held her lower back, and they made their way to the lobby. When they exited the apartment building, Fiona huddled in the pea coat he’d bought for her. He cradled her shoulders, and she nestled closer to him.

A black town car pulled up to the curb. Andrew guided Fiona to the door, opened it for her, and she slid inside. He circled the trunk and climbed into the other side. The driver glanced in the rearview but stayed silent as he drove toward Fiona’s childhood home.

She alternated smoothing her dress with nibbling on her thumbnail.

Andrew lowered her hand and clasped it in his. “Nervous? What happened to that spunky girl from earlier?”

Her lips rolled together. “Are you sure we should do this? Maybe we didn’t think this through. I’m dead. I’m not sure I want to be on the cover of The National Enquirer.”

His mouth slid to the side. He leaned toward the front seat. “Did you get what I asked?”

The driver retrieved a box from the passenger seat and passed it to Andrew. He opened the emerald green and gold box and peeled back the tissue paper. Inside were two masks. One made of silver and navy satin with a black lace overlay, the other a simple black. Andrew handed the navy mask to Fiona. “It’s a masquerade ball. Since your eyes are brown now. . .”

“No one will know me. Or at least I hope they don’t.” She traced the almond-shaped holes in the mask. “What will we do once we find the poison? We can’t call the police.”

“We won’t have to. The police chief will be there. Once he sees you, it’ll all be over.”

“But what if. . .”

Andrew squeezed her hand as the town car turned into the gated driveway. “Everything will change after tonight. I promise.” He nudged her gently. “As long as you don’t try to ‘cut’ anyone.”

“Yeah, sorry. I probably shouldn’t have stolen your scalpel.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I enjoyed the rush.”

“Rush?” She laughed. “You looked horrified.”

“Well, I was at first,” he said. “But afterward, I felt alive.”

“Maybe because you hang around so many dead people.”

His lips curled upward. “You make me sound so charming.”

“You’re a regular ole prince charming, Littleton.”

His shoulders tensed, and he straightened his bow tie, which seemed to squeeze on his pulsating jugular. “Something like that,” he replied, his voice cracking like a teenage boy.

Fiona chortled softly, slipped on her mask, and peered out the window. Andrew followed her gaze.

Lights on the ground illuminated manicured bushes and trees in the vast lawn. A valet waited at the base of the stone steps on the other side of a circular fountain. The driver stopped at the curb, and an attendant opened Fiona’s door.

Andrew hurried to meet her as she exited the vehicle. He glanced into the car. “Stay close. We won’t be long.”

The driver nodded, and Andrew escorted Fiona through the crowd. The town’s sheriff, his brother, and the elementary school principal chatted in front of them about Fiona’s involvement in local charities. On either side of them, Fiona and Andrew’s high school classmates laughed as if Fiona hadn’t just died yesterday.

She flinched.

Andrew gritted his teeth. He couldn’t wait to leave this town. He drew her in tighter as two men directed them through the double doors.

They handed their jackets to the coat checks and sauntered deeper into the entryway. A quartet of violinists played a classical melody, and as Fiona had predicted, huge bouquets of white flowers decorated the tables.

Guests flooded every nook and cranny. They ambled on the curved staircase, tittering about trivial things. Andrew searched the horde for Hilda, but he made contact with Blair instead. Her eyes narrowed behind her purple mask at the gorgeous girl by his side.

Fiona went rigid as her step-sister meandered down the stairs.

Blair smiled at guests as they passed, sipping champagne, and plucking hors d’oeuvres from circular trays.

She stopped in front of Andrew and Fiona. Her pink lips twisted into a snarl. “Who’s this?”

She cocked an eyebrow at Fiona, who stiffened next to him. He rubbed her lower back, more to keep her from assaulting anyone than to protect her.

Andrew squared his shoulders. “This is my date. Now if you’ll excuse me, we have some mingling to do.”

She glared but kept her mouth shut. Word-wise, anyway. Her gaped lips spoke to her disbelief, and Andrew smiled, satisfied with himself.

He led Fiona through the crowd to the edge of the party. As usual, no one noticed the mortician’s son. For once, he was relieved.

“Did you see the look on her face?” Fiona whispered.

Andrew waved in Blair’s direction. “Seems she’s frozen like that.”

Blair sneered and stormed away.

The music stopped, and heads turned. Guests hurried out of the way as Hilda and Fiona’s mother, Angela, emerged from an upstairs room.

They glided to the balcony that overlooked the large entryway. Both women wore similar sleek gowns. Fiona’s mother radiated in a champagne-colored silk that suited her auburn hair and dark eyes.

Hilda wore all black.

Fiona lunged forward, but Andrew held tight to her wrist. He couldn’t have her exploding. Not yet.

Her “mothers” peered over the wooden railing. Hordes of townsfolk clustered together to listen to whatever speech they had planned.

Andrew couldn’t wait to hear, either. What could they possibly have to say? He doubted they had a sentimental eulogy for Fiona.

Hilda tapped a fork on her champagne flute. “First, I would like to thank Cathy’s Flowers for the gorgeous oleanders and her husband’s catering company for the delicious refreshments.”

The crowd clapped.

Hilda raised her glass. “Friends and family, we are not here tonight to mourn the death of young Fiona.”

Murmurs reverberated in the room. Fiona jerked from Andrew’s grasp but didn’t move.

Hilda held up her hand. “We are here to celebrate the union of Angela and myself. For years, we’ve awaited this day. And now we have the opportunity to share our love with everyone. So drink. Laugh. And join us in our day of happiness.”

An influx of gasps mixed with whispers resonated around Andrew and Fiona. He stared, flabbergasted. Had Hilda planned this since high school? Why would she lock up Angela? To trick Fiona’s father?

Disgusting.

Maybe Angela had second thoughts, so Hilda committed her. Either way, they killed Hilda’s husbands to build wealth for their union. Now that Fiona was dead, they had the motherlode. Her trust—the one he just realized she’d have received on her twenty-fifth birthday.

Fiona growled. Uh-oh.

She yanked off her mask and charged toward the balcony. “You bitch!”

Screams, loud gasps, and cries echoed. People scattered to the door, the walls, and the kitchen.

A shriek came from above. Fiona’s mother leaned over the banister. “You’re alive!”

Fiona touched her heart. “You tried to kill me?”

The sheriff climbed the stairs. He shook his head at Hilda and Angela. “Is this true?”

Hilda’s eyes turned to slits. “Well, Angela? What do you have to say for yourself? She’s obviously crazy, sheriff. Arrest her.”

Angela’s lips parted. She stumbled backward. “No. You. . . You have no evidence. Fiona slit her wrists. Ask the coroner.”

“She was poisoned.” Andrew pushed through the huddled mass of gossiping ladies and their grumbling husbands to stand next to Fiona.

“Prove it,” Angela yelled.

Andrew turned away from them. He glided his hand along a vase. Hilda’s smug expression reflected in the porcelain. His gaze lifted to the arrangement of white flowers, and his lips twisted to the side. “Oleanders.”

“What?”

“You poisoned her with oleanders. The apple cider. Your specialty?” Andrew snapped his finger toward Doctor McGraven as she crept toward the door. “And Hilda’s sister covered up the evidence.”

Guests separated, creating a path from the staircase to the door. Regardless, if the police found them guilty, the town had already convicted them.

The sheriff withdrew handcuffs from his pocket. He restrained Angela.

An eerie smile formed on Hilda’s face. “How could you hurt our sweet Fiona?”

Andrew gaped. She’d locked up Angel to pin this murder on her.

“I didn’t do it,” Angela cried. “I wanted her gone. But I didn’t poison her. Daniel’s inheritance should’ve been mine.”

Fiona matched Hilda’s glaring eyes. “It was both of them. I saw them do it.”

The sheriff nodded to the other officers in attendance. Hilda’s nose pointed upward as they restrained her.

Fiona gently pulled on Andrew’s arm. “Let's go.”

“Don’t you want to stay? Isn’t this why you came back here?”

Fiona squeezed his hand. “No. I came back for you.”

His stomached fluttered in sheer happiness. He beamed, and they weaved through the crowd to the exit.

Blair stood outside the car, her face contorted in fear. “You’re dead.”

Fiona touched Blair’s arm. “And you’re finally free from that witch. The house is yours.”

“What? Why?”

Fiona didn’t respond. She slid into the backseat, laughing. “I can’t believe we did that.”

Andrew wiped his brow. “I can’t believe it worked.”

The car sped from the house and barreled onto the road.

“Now what?”

Andrew’s fingers wrapped around hers. His heart swelled, and his head spun with an elation he never knew existed. He couldn’t wait to give her everything.

After zooming through town, the car swerved into the private airport. Fiona grunted as the vehicle slammed through the chain-locked fence. A private jet hummed on the tarmac, stairs already descending to the black pavement where a man in a white uniform waited.

“What’s going on?” Fiona peeked out his window. “Are we going somewhere?”

“We’re getting out of this town.”

“What about my father’s gallery?”

“I bought it. All the paintings are already onboard.”

“What?”

Andrew gleamed with delight from the gorgeous surprise on Fiona’s face. He slipped from the car, ran around, and opened her door.

The driver motioned toward the jet. “Sir.”

Andrew bobbed his head. “One second.”

Fiona wobbled. He drew her into his arms and kissed her. Their lips moved with hunger, passion, and complete desire. Fiona Burke was dead, and Andrew didn’t care. Unnatural or not, he wanted to be with her.

Fiona’s death had brought him to life.

Brightness haloed them, and a lightheadedness whisked Andrew into a whirlwind of bliss.

His hands stroked her back and heat fired through his body. She tasted like heaven and smelled of peppermint from the lotion he’d bought for her. He drowned in the sweetness of her kiss. With each feverish slant of their mouths, she sighed softly.

He’d do this all day if they didn’t have to disappear before the mob of press, townspeople, and police found them.

Reluctantly, he broke from her.

She gazed at him. In the glowing street lamps, a strange bluish tint circled the edges of her brown contacts.

He squinted. “Take out your contacts.”

“Why?”

“Trust me.”

She removed them. Vibrant, electric blue eyes stared into his. He rolled his hand up her arm and touched the side of her neck. A faint throb tapped under his fingertips.

“Fiona. . .You’re alive. Your heart’s beating.”

She lifted on her tip-toes and kissed him. “How’d you do it?”

Andrew chuckled, and they strolled toward their destiny. “Do what?”

Fiona paused at the bottom of the jet’s stairs. “Wake me from the dead. . . all of this.”

The nape of his neck tingled, warming his ears and nose. He let go of her hand and withdrew a piece of paper from his jacket’s inner pocket. His fingers trembled as he unfolded the truth about his life. “Sometimes, in royal families, if there are twin boys, the queen must pick one to be the king’s successor. Apparently, this country had problems with feuding brothers in the past. So they sent one to America for adoption.

“Once I found out the truth, I searched for you because I finally had a way to give you everything. I hoped you’d overlook that I was a college drop-out and a mortician’s son.”

“Andrew, I didn’t need material things to like you. Or whatever this ‘secret’ truth is. You’re a great guy.”

He passed her the sheet of paper.

She angled her chin. “What is this?”

He tucked a strand of ebony hair behind her ear to showcase her smooth, snow-white skin. “My father’s will.”

Her blood-red lips parted, closed, and then parted again. “Holy shit. You’re. . . you’re a prince?”

“True love’s kiss.” He winked. “That’s how I did it.”

“Fiona Olivia Burke, will you do me the honor of—”

“Andrew. I don’t think you should—”

He opened the box. “Accompanying me to this terrible party tonight?”

Her red lips parted. She retrieved the box and opened one of the green and white circular containers. Her nose crinkled with her smile. “They’re brown.”

Andrew grinned and shook his head. “It was all they had.”

Andrew carved paths in the hallway of his apartment, pausing once or twice to straighten the black bow tie choking him. His fingers fidgeted with the cufflinks on his tailored shirt, and his dress shoes tapped on the floor.

Tonight would go as planned. Fiona would get her justice, or at the very least, she’d escape this town.

After weeks of worrying, he’d finally called his family, and they’d made all the arrangements. His nerves still bounced around from the conversation. It could’ve gone very badly, but instead, they had welcomed him. They’d do the same for Fiona.

What was taking her so long?

She hated the dress he bought her. Maybe he’d gotten a size too large. He froze. Or too small. Both would insult her. He should check to be sure.

He crept to the bedroom door. It swung open, and Fiona glided outside. He sucked in a breath. She was stunning. The classy, floor length, navy-blue gown accentuated every curve of her body. Pearls rested on her collarbone and matched the teardrop earrings. She had gathered her hair into an up-do of black curls that exposed her sensual neckline.

Her eyes connected with his, and he nodded. “The contacts look good.”

“I could get used to brown eyes.” She spun. “Can you zip me?”

Andrew blew out the air that burned in his lungs. He stepped behind her and heat flooded his lower body. Her lacy bra and underwear peeked from the opening.

He blushed, turned his head, and closed the zipper. His fingers lingered on the nape of her neck, and she sighed.

“You look lovely,” he whispered.

She smiled. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself, Mr. Littleton. Let's get this show on the road.”

Andrew held her lower back, and they made their way to the lobby. When they exited the apartment building, Fiona huddled in the peacoat he’d bought for her. He cradled her shoulders, and she nestled closer to him.