Diana Rowland - Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues

So of course, that wasn’t going to happen. Marcus hadn’t been gone more than five seconds before a slim auburn-haired woman came into the kitchen. She gave me a tight, polite smile before heading straight to one of the oak walls—which she then opened to retrieve a bottle of wine. Okay, fridge successfully located. I’d have never found that thing on my own.

The woman turned with her bottle, walking with enough care that I suspected it wasn’t her first. But she paused as she neared and raked an unsteady gaze over me. “We could be twins,” she announced.

I blinked in confusion until I realized she was wearing jeans, black sweater and boots—same as me. Except on her it looked like the perfect definition of “elegant casual.” Then again, her clothing probably hadn’t come from the outlet mall.

“Though I don’t think I could pull off that hair color,” she added with a twitch of her lips.

I fought the urge to reach a hand up and smooth down my perpetually frizzy, overbleached hair. Leaning back against the counter, I did my best to give off an I don’t give a shit attitude. “Yeah, it’s a personal statement thing,” I replied, copying her smirk. Personal statement? I sighed inwardly as soon as the words were out of my mouth. That was the best comeback I could come up with?

She let out a snort, then held up the wine. “You drinking?”

“Nah, not right now,” I said. Or ever. Drinking alcohol would only make me rot faster while my zombie-ness cleaned up the damage it did. “But don’t let me stop you. Knock yourself out.”

She gave me another once-over, then apparently decided I was boring her. She rolled her eyes, turned without another word, and tottered off to the backyard.

I barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before a tall blond woman in a black dress and burgundy jacket entered the kitchen.

“Did a redhead in a black sweater come through here?” she asked me, her forehead puckering into a worried frown.

“Yeah,” I said. “She grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge and headed out back.”

She heaved a sigh and leaned against the counter. “Good. Maybe she’ll get drunk enough that she’ll forget to chew me out tomorrow.” I must have looked baffled because she straightened and shrugged. “Sorry. That’s my boss, Dr. Charish. She’s been on my ass wanting me to explain my requisitions in painful detail, which slows down my actual work, which means she then gets on my ass about not getting my project reports in on time.”

I recognized her now. This was the chick that Marcus had been talking to at the lab. And the redhead was the uptight-looking woman who’d looked so pissed off when we were picking up the body.

“That sucks,” I said, since I had no idea what else to say.

“Don’t mind me,” she said with a small smile. “I’m just venting. I’ve learned ways around Dr. Charish’s craziness.” Then she tilted her head. “You must be Angel!” she said. “Nathan and Morena said that you’d come inside. I’m Sofia.” She gave me a warm smile and shook my hand. Her grip was cool and firm—one of those perfect handshakes that made me think she had to do a lot of meet and greet type bullshit at her job.

“Yeah…that’s right. Yes, I’m Angel. Nice to meet you.” I decided to play dumb about knowing who she was. “Are you one of his cousins?”

Amusement lit her eyes, though she didn’t laugh. “No, I’m just a family friend. I’ve known Marcus since high school. Have you two been dating long?”

“Not really,” I replied. “Only a couple of weeks.”

“Well that explains why we haven’t heard much about you,” she said with a light chuckle. “Though he does tend to stay pretty private.” Her lips twitched. “It says quite a bit that he brought you around to meet us so soon.”

I gave a weak laugh in response. “Well, we’ve actually kinda known each other for a while. I mean, we just weren’t dating is all.” Crap, what had he told them about how long we’d known each other?

Sofia tilted her head slightly. “Ah. That makes more sense. So, tell me about yourself, Angel. Where did you go to school?”

It took everything I had to not pretend I heard Marcus calling for me or my phone ringing. I fought to keep the smile on my face, but I was pretty damn sure it looked sickly. “I, uh, went to East St. Edwards high school.”

Sofia waited a beat as if expecting me to say more, then seemed to realize that I was finished. “Of course. Any plans for college?”

A sick tightness began to form in my stomach. You don’t belong here was the clear message. “Um, not right now. Just working, y’know.” The last thing I wanted to tell her was that I hadn’t even graduated high school. But hey, I was studying for my GED at least. Or rather, I was about to start studying for it. Any day now.

She took a sip of her drink. “Of course. There are some great online courses that are pretty affordable and don’t eat up too much time. That’s how Marcus is working toward his masters.”

I blinked. “Masters? Oh, I, um, didn’t know he’d gone to college.” Here I was thinking he was just a cop. He had a degree? Why hadn’t he ever told me? Trying to protect my feelings again?

What the hell did he see in me?

“He has a bachelors in sociology. But he figures that with a masters he has a better chance of going federal.”

“Federal?” I asked weakly.

She smiled at me over her glass. “Federal agent. FBI or DEA. That sort of thing.”

“Oh,” I managed. “He…never told me that.”

Marcus came back then, and I nearly seized him in relief. “I see you’ve met Sofia,” he said, then surprised me by giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re looking as sharp as ever,” he told her.

“And you as well. I was just getting to know your new girlfriend.”

“Well, I hate to interrupt, but I need to steal Angel away from you to introduce her to Uncle Pietro.”

Sofia’s eyes crinkled in what looked like amusement, then she gave me a polite smile and turned away. Marcus tugged me toward the stairs. He glanced over at me as we climbed. “You all right?”

I plastered on a smile. “Sure thing.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I was suffering from a crisis of inferiority because I was an uneducated doof, and that I was feeling more and more like I didn’t deserve to be with him. “I’m peachy keen,” I added for good measure.

He didn’t look convinced, but luckily for me there wasn’t time for him to pry more details out of me. At the top of the stairs we proceeded to the room at the end of the hallway. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. A sitting room or maybe an office. Something that looked a bit like the room Marlon Brando sat in during the beginning of The Godfather . It was my dad’s favorite movie. I knew that room.

This wasn’t that room. Not even close. Oh, there was a big ol’ oak desk and leather chairs and that sort of thing. But one wall was taken up by an enormous TV, along with consoles for several different video game systems. Opposite that was a smaller desk with a computer and flat screen monitor. Every bit of wall space that wasn’t taken up with TV, windows, or door, was filled with bookcases all chock full of books. All kinds—hardback, paperback, non-fiction, fiction, mystery, sci-fi—all precisely shelved and, as far as I could tell, alphabetized.

I pulled my attention away from the intimidating number of books. In a chair by the window was a man who I could only assume was Uncle Pietro. To my relief, he looked exactly how I’d pictured him. Stocky and swarthy, dark brown hair with a scattering of grey, and dark eyes that seemed to crackle with intelligence. I found myself discreetly peering to see if I could detect any evidence of hair dye or makeup but quickly gave up. Whoever did his work was damn good. As far as I could tell the man really was in his sixties.