Page 4 of The Alpha Dire Wolf (Bloodlines & Bloodbonds #1)

Sylvie

F inding the funeral home was easy. Finding parking was not.

Half the town had shown up by the looks of it.

Cars filled the parking lot, and the streets were lined with them, forcing me to drive to the next block over to locate an empty spot.

I could probably have found space in the funeral home’s lot if I wanted to, but the sun was shining, and a chance to stretch my legs and get some fresh air sounded like a wonderful idea with the day I was having.

The instant I was in sight of the funeral home, however, my neck started to tingle.

Not a warning of danger, so I didn’t panic, but the prickles never faded.

I was being watched. It was impossible to describe the feeling to someone who had never experienced it, but once you had, you knew it intimately.

Scanning the street and the cars around me, I tried to locate them, but to no avail. They were either hidden, or I wasn’t able to distinguish them from everyone else. The sidewalks had numerous people on them, all making their way to the funeral home.

My grandmother was more popular than I had assumed. I knew she was well-liked and respected, but this was a lot.

“Sylvie? Sylvie Wilson?”

I turned, already bracing myself. Not because of the speaker, an elderly lady with a walker I didn’t recognize, but because I knew what was about to happen.

“That’s me,” I said.

“I thought you looked familiar. Your grandmother used to show me pictures of you. I’m Sheila Rodriguez.

” The woman balanced herself carefully with one hand gripping the walker’s rail and gave me her other to shake.

“I just wanted to say that I am very sorry about your grandmother. Helen was a truly wonderful lady. She was very proud of you. Our bingo nights won’t be the same without her. ”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound appreciative when all I wanted was to be left alone. I’d had enough condolences for two lifetimes when I was here for my parents’ funeral.

They meant well, but that didn’t make it any easier, repeating the same lines over and over again. Thank you. I’m doing fine. No, I’ll be okay, thank you. Yes, she was wonderful.

Again. And again. I couldn’t. Not this time. I needed to say something else. A different topic, something besides death.

“Sheila,” I said, an idea coming to me. “You played bingo with my grandmother?”

“Every Monday night,” she confirmed.

“Had she stopped showing up lately?” I asked.

Sheila laughed, surprising herself. “Absolutely not. You couldn’t stop that woman if you tried.

She was there early, helping set up most nights, and often stayed behind as well.

She helped out anyone who needed it. I saw her just last week.

She was as spry as ever. Which isn’t to say she was running around, but she never took a day off either. ”

“Thank you,” I said, moving on as a line of people started to appear, others realizing who I was.

Most of them were a blur, names and faces of people I had never met or heard of but who had known my grandmother in some way and felt obliged to attend her funeral, to remember the life of a woman who would be sorely missed by half the town apparently.

I finally managed to extricate myself from the line and had nearly made it inside, when an elderly man fell in step alongside me.

He moved easily and with pep for someone I judged to be in his mid-seventies, easily keeping up with me and not appearing to need to put much effort into it.

He had standard male-pattern-baldness, but neglected to remove the sides and back, the silvery-gray hair tapering into a full beard that came halfway to his shoulders.

“Desmond Crane,” he said by way of introduction.

“Sylvie.” I didn’t feel the need to give him my last name. “What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?”

“Call me Des, please. Your grandmother did.”

I eyed the man. “If you insist.”

“I’m the head of the New Lockwood Historical Society,” he said. “Your grandmother was a founding member.”

“Oh. Okay?” Why was that important to me today? It didn’t feel like it should be.

“I just wanted you to know that our seats are, um, sort of dictated in an older, more traditional method.”

“Please, Mr. Crane, I’ve had a long day. I only found out a few hours ago that my grandmother had passed away and that the funeral is today. I don’t want you to think I’m always rude, but could you please get to the point?”

His face softened. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.

That’s terrible. Ah, well, my point was that the seats on our board are determined via heredity.

So, therefore, you now occupy a spot on the board of directors by default.

There’s no rush, but I figured you should know.

I’m not sure your grandmother would have put it in the will, and I know you’re from out of town, so I wanted to make sure I caught you before you leave again. ”

“I see. Thank you.” I guess? This seemed like another person who knew my grandmother well, though. It could be worth asking … “Have you seen much of my grandmother lately, Des?”

“Once or twice a week for years now.”

A tiny smile tugged at my lips. This was perfect.

“Great. Then you can tell me, since you’ve seen so much of her. Was she starting to, you know, lose a grip on reality?”

Desmond Crane’s eyes narrowed sharp and fast. “What are you referring to?”

“You know, like, Alzheimer’s or anything like that?” I asked, taken aback by his sudden intensity at the question.

“Helen? Absolutely not, her memory was perfect. Better than mine, I’d say.” He laughed as if it were some inside joke.

I didn’t.

“Any signs of sadness or depression?”

Crane shook his head. “No, none that I noticed. She was always happy, making jokes. Why are you asking me this, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Miss Wilson,” I corrected. “And because she seemed in great health to me, for being eighty-six. I just don’t get it. That’s all.”

“Sometimes, these things just happen at her age,” Desmond replied with a soft, sad smile.

“There is no rhyme or reason. It just does. I’m a decade her junior, and I sometimes feel it in my bones.

It’s hard to describe to someone in their youth.

I didn’t understand when I was young, not really.

We would joke about feeling old when our body ached after a day of activity or too many drinks, but that wasn’t feeling old.

Old is … different. It’s a constant. You know it.

And perhaps your grandmother was hiding that, and she knew it was her time to go.

You can’t begrudge someone of that choice. ”

“I don’t,” I said. “Only the speed with which she made it. I wish I’d been able to see her one more time. To tell her I loved her, and—”

I cut myself off. I had questions I wanted to ask her, but they weren’t ones I wanted to tell a stranger. Talking about the forest that way would earn me some strange glances.

“You’d be surprised how much I understand,” Des replied, squeezing my upper arm. “I’ll be inside. If you need anything, now or later, come see us. Okay? We’ll be waiting for you.”

“I will,” I promised, wondering if I was lying or not. What interest did I have in the New Lockwood Historical Society?

Excusing myself, I ducked into the funeral home, managing to avoid anyone else. I holed up in the office Pastor Nevis was using, keeping myself isolated until the service itself began.

It was hard. Sitting there in the front row, the only living member of the family present, I couldn’t be invisible, couldn’t shrink away from the weight of all the grief in the room.

Grief that I could not present. It was too new, too fresh.

I was still in some stage of shock. Denial was mixing itself in, fueled in part by the letter.

I thought about that a lot during the service.

Why she would send it to me at all. Why date it after her death.

That prompted a new question. How could she have known it would be after her death?

Everyone was saying her death was of natural causes, but how could that be if she knew the date ahead of time?

Unless, like Pastor Nevis said, she simply “let go” and passed away. Nobody seemed to think she was shy on life or zest. Quite the opposite.

Which is exactly what I told everyone when called upon to say a few words.

I spoke of her rich laugh, always quick to show itself, or her unabashed love of absolutely terrible jokes—something also quick to reveal her laughter.

I talked about her deep, loving care for those around her, as evidenced by the increasing size of the waistline of anyone who spent time around her.

The woman had loved to cook and made sure everyone was heartily fed, even if they weren’t hungry.

One didn’t say no to Helen Mary-Anne Wilson’s food.

The congregation laughed. We cried. It was exactly as she would have wanted it—reflective but not overly somber. My grandmother had lived in life, and that was what she wanted to be remembered for. And so we remembered her.

I remembered her.

With other members of the community, we carried her coffin out to the waiting hearse to the sounds of Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up . ” There were more laughs when the familiar bass line started. That was my grandma.

“I’m going to miss you,” I said quietly, bending over the coffin after the journey to the cemetery and her grave.

Everyone else was gone, having dispersed after a few more words were said.

“But don’t worry. I won’t give you up. Though, I’m sorry to say, these cemetery workers are going to let you down. ”

One of them heard and snickered, turning away immediately.

“Don’t be ashamed,” I said with a smile. “She would be a mix between cackling wildly and upset that she didn’t think of it herself to have mentioned in the memorial service somewhere.”

Nodding in grateful relief, the worker’s jaw still quivered as he worked on his composure.

A thousand more thoughts ran through my mind to say, but none of them had to be said then and there. I nodded to the workers and stepped back, letting them do their job.

And that was it. I said goodbye to my grandma mere hours after finding out she was gone.

“What a day,” I said to the empty air, pulling out my cellphone to check the time. “What the hell—oh you have got to be kidding me.”

Nine missed phone calls.

Eighteen unread text messages.

Those were the notifications I read. All of them from Caidyn.

I swiped away the calls. No way in hell was I calling him back, even less after everything that had happened since he’d dropped his bomb about cheating on me. A quick read of his text messages had me rolling my eyes.

We need to talk.

I need my stuff back.

Where are you?

Why are you ignoring me?

I want to see you tonight so we can talk about this.

“Talk about what, asshole? How you cheated on me?” I clicked on his messages, so he could see I’d read them, and then I left it that way.

Dick.

Pausing at the bottom of the hill, I glanced back up at the gravesite, where my grandma was now buried next to her husband, reunited once more.

I had barely known my grandfather and had no real memories of the man.

He’d passed when I was only four. But by all accounts, he was a great guy, and I was happy my grandmother would be back with him. She deserved it.

A little to the right, I caught a glimpse of my parents’ gravestones. I stared at them, trying to decide if I should go up there and say a few words.

But what would I say? Now wasn’t the time. I needed peace. Not to dig up more old memories.

And just as I decided to go, all the hairs on my neck rose at once followed by a shiver that worked its way down my spine from vertebra to vertebra. Just like at the funeral home.

I was being watched.

Pivoting on my right foot, I slowly scanned the cemetery. Maybe this time I could pinpoint who thought they could spy on me without me knowing.

There. I caught them.

Between two large tombstones and under the branches of one of the massive trees that dotted the graveyard, he stood with his thick arms crossed, stretching tight the long-sleeve black, white, and gold flannel shirt that he had rolled up to his elbows.

He had big aviator-style sunglasses obscuring much of his face and a plain black ballcap pulled low to hide his features.

All I could see were his bearded jaw and the long light-brown hair pulled back down his neck.

That and the sheer musculature of him. He was jacked—thick biceps and, just visible under the rolled sleeves, huge corded forearm muscles.

He didn’t move when I zeroed in on him. Didn’t duck for cover or slide out of view. He let himself be seen.

Who the hell are you? I definitely did not know anyone with that sort of body and size, not in this town.

Nearly fifteen years and puberty changes people, though. It’s possible I knew him. Once. But not now.

I ignored the stupid, baser part of me that wanted to add thoughts about getting to know him. Today was not the day for that.

After a few moments of staring at one another, long enough for him to show that he was letting himself be seen, he turned and casually walked to a black truck parked behind him. He slid behind tinted windows and then was gone.

Tinted and lifted. Just like the red truck from earlier that had cut me off and nearly killed me.

Was this the same guy watching me back at the funeral home? It stood to measure it was.

So who the hell was he? And why was he watching me of all people?