Their Forbidden Prey

1. Aspen

ASPEN

Am I really here, standing outside this tiny church, holding a large, black umbrella over my head? I’m numb inside and simply going through the motions of how people think I’m supposed to act. The grieving daughter, solemn but respectful.

I greet people as they arrive, shaking hands, or accepting kisses pressed to my cold cheek. I can’t take any comfort in their words or embraces.

Fat raindrops flick against the top of the umbrella like fingertips pattering. The scent of wet pine on the air mingles with cigarette smoke from someone sneaking one in before the service.

My father had been a well-loved man in our small town, respected in his profession. Lots of people have turned up to his funeral, wanting to pay their respects, yet there’s only one person I’m watching for. I find myself looking for him, searching him out between all the figures dressed in black.

It’s been six years since I last saw my father’s best friend, and I have no idea if he’ll show.

“Miss Preston,” a man in his sixties says as he takes my fingers in his. “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

I thank him, wanting him to let go of my hand already. His skin is clammy, and it fires distaste inside me. I vaguely recognize him—yet another of my father’s colleagues.

“Call me Aspen,” I insist.

“If there’s anything we can do,” he offers.

I pull my hand from his grip and resist the urge to twirl my hair around my finger. Where were these offers when my dad was so sick?

Can you bring my father back? I want to say. Can you talk to the bank and make them give me back my home?

But I only press my lips together and keep my thoughts to myself.

The man moves on, leaving me to greet yet another nameless stranger in dark clothing.

The whole time, I’m checking over their shoulder, seeking him out.

Maybe I should have called instead of sending him an impersonal invitation to the funeral in the mail, but I hadn’t been able to find any contact details for him other than an address in the south-central region of the Adirondacks, several hours’ drive from here, and I hadn’t even known if that was up to date.

His number hadn’t been in my dad’s contacts on his phone, but then that wasn’t surprising.

The two of them had fallen out a long time ago, about a year after everything had happened.

When we’d needed him the most.

It hadn’t been a conversation I’d wanted to have anyway. Perhaps I’d been a coward. Receiving an invitation in the mail wasn’t the best way to find out about the death of someone who’d been like a brother for twenty-something years.

He probably hadn’t even received it.

More people file past me and head into the church. The atmosphere is subdued. I try not to think about the cost of the service. It was more than I had, but what could I do? I needed to give my dad a funeral.

Beside me, Father Montague clears his throat, and I jolt back to the present with a start.

I’d been gazing into the distance again, still watching out for my father’s best friend.

Will he look different now? It’s been years since I last saw him, and I’d been a child back then. Time warps a person’s memory.

“We’re ready to start, Miss Preston,” Father Montague says.

“Okay, thank you.”

Has he noticed how dry-eyed I am? Does he think it strange that a young woman isn’t crying for her dead father?

For the past six months, it’s as though all I’ve done is cry.

I always put on a smile for Dad when I was in his company, but alone, in the shower, or driving the car, I let the tears fall.

I feel as though I grieved my father while he’d still been alive. Was such a thing possible?

My stomach churns with nerves. I don’t want to go inside that old building. I don’t want to stand at the front and speak about my dad to a bunch of people I don’t know. I wish I had someone to put their arm around me or squeeze my hand, or to just offer a reassuring smile now and then.

My heart aches.

I give one final glance across the churchyard and the small parking lot filled with expensive cars.

He’s not coming.

With a sigh, I lower the umbrella, giving it a shake, and turn and head inside. I yank the mechanism to fold the umbrella back in and place it in the stand near the door.

I want this to be over, but then I’ll have the most terrifying of questions hanging over me—what now?

I force myself to enter the main body of the church, with its stained glass windows and vaulted ceiling, and dark wooden pews lined one in front of the other.

It’s cold and smells of musty cushions and old wood.

I stare at the backs of the heads of all these strangers—a man with a pale bald spot, and a woman with her brunette hair in a chignon at her nape—and slowly make my way down the aisle.

The urn holding Dad’s ashes sits on a stand before me, a framed photograph of my father—James Preston—positioned beside it, together with a simple bouquet of lilies.

They were all I could afford. Dad had been cremated two weeks ago, as had been his wishes.

I hadn’t wanted for his body to be here at the funeral anyway, hadn’t wanted a reminder of the person he’d become.

Even funeral home makeup wouldn’t have been enough to hide the ravages the cancer had caused his body.

At the end, he hadn’t been the big, strong father I’d grown up with.

The disease had eaten away at him, leaving him as skin and bone.

At times, it had felt inordinately cruel that there could be so little left of him, and yet him still be living.

The pain of being alone envelops me.

I long for family—for my older sister, Emilia, who’d vanished at the age of seventeen, when I’d only been eleven, and for the mother who’d left willingly via suicide when she finally accepted my sister wasn’t coming home.

It had hurt that I hadn’t been enough to make my mom’s life worth living. My sister had always been the golden girl, beautiful and smart, unlike me. It was as though they both abandoned me.

Everyone seems to in the end.

I keep my fitted black jacket on as protection against the cold and find my seat on the old wooden pew right at the front.

The wood is dark and scratched, a network of scars marking the surface.

A small rectangular cushion with what appears to be a handstitched cover is all that protects my backside from the chill of the wood beneath.

There’s a printout on a folded piece of paper that contains the words for the service and the hymns, but I don’t bother to pick it up or look through it.

The priest stands at the front and begins his service. “Welcome, and thank you for coming here today as we gather to celebrate the life of James Preston.”

I’m barely aware of what’s being said. I’m conscious of the weight of so many gazes on my back. My heart beats too hard and fast, and a buzzing fills my ears.

My name is spoken, and I blink up. Father Montague gives a slight jerk of his chin, and I realize my time has arrived to stand at the front and say a few words about Dad.

On shaky legs, I rise, take my place at the pulpit, and turn to face the microphone. I fish out the folded piece of paper that makes up my notes and start by thanking everyone for coming. The microphone squeals with feedback, and I wince and move back slightly.

My gaze sweeps so many faces, then moves back again, locking on a man standing at the rear of the church.

His long, black woolen overcoat, the collar pulled up against the chill, is filled by his six feet something frame and broad shoulders. A closely cut beard covers the lower half of his face, and his long hair is tied back.

My heart stutters, and so do my words. I lose where I am, and my cheeks flush with heat.

He came.

Blake Lincoln.

My father’s best friend.

Adrenaline surges through my veins. My heart thuds against my ribs and, for a moment, the church seems to recede so my focus is purely on him, like he’s standing under a spotlight. Does he recognize me? I was twelve years old the last time I saw Blake—still a kid.

I’m all grown up now.

I assume he must recognize me, or at least have come to a reasonable deduction about who I am. I’ve used the word ‘dad’ in my eulogy, and there are no other young women present with my flame-colored hair or pale freckled skin, a complexion I shared with my father.

Tearing my attention from him, I try to focus on my notes.

My hand trembles, the paper fluttering with it.

I fight to remember what I wanted to say, but my head is foggy with grief.

My notes are only for show. A few scribbled words, that’s all.

It’s not as though I ever planned on letting anyone else see them.

Somehow, I manage to struggle my way to the end.

My cheeks burn, and I keep my neck bent, doing my best to avoid eye contact with anyone as I retake my seat.

All I’m aware of is the man standing at the back of the church.

I barely hear what Father Montague says as he finishes the service.

I feel guilty for not paying attention, but I’ve struggled to pay attention to much of anything lately.

The funeral finally reaches its end, and I’m able to breathe again, relieved it’s over.

People approach, crowding out my personal space, to shake my hand and kiss my cheek and tell me it was a beautiful service. I try to see over their heads, trying to spot Blake, wondering if he’ll be among them.

There isn’t going to be a wake—I could hardly afford a party—and the church have offered to keep hold of his ashes until I’ve gotten back on my feet again and am in the right frame of mind to scatter them. Whenever that might be.

People file from the church, and I eagerly seek out the man who’d been standing at the rear, but the space is empty.

A fist lodges in my chest.

He left already.

What had I been expecting? For him to come and save me? To step into the empty space my father left behind? Why would he do that? He and Dad hadn’t even spoken in years. I’m nothing to him.

I thank Father Montague for his service and leave the church. It’s still raining, but I’ve forgotten my umbrella. I’ve left it propped up and dripping in the stand.

“Aspen?”

My breath catches.

The large shape of a man emerges from the side of the church.

Adrenaline punches me afresh. “Blake? You’re still here.”

His brow creases. “You thought I’d left?”

“Well… yes.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Wouldn’t he?

He’s been gone for six years.

He clears his throat and adds, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

A flare of anger sparks inside me. I’m getting wet, and I don’t even care.

“Dad was sick for so long,” I throw at him.

“You never came. No one did. I had to take care of him by myself. No one even visited.” I gesture helplessly at the parking lot.

“All those people here today—assholes, the whole lot of them. They said they were his friends, but as soon as he got sick, no one wanted to know. It was like they were frightened cancer was contagious.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So you should be,” I snap. “He would have wanted to see you one last time. To say goodbye.”

“He could have called.”

“So could you. If you’d called, he would have told you about his cancer. It would have meant a lot to him to see you, even if he would never have admitted it.”

Blake drops his gaze then lifts it back to mine. The rain dampens his light brown hair a shade darker, and droplets stud his beard like diamonds. His eyelashes stick together in tiny spikes. His eyes are green with a ring of brown around the irises, and I find myself falling into them.

I always remembered Blake as being big, but I’d assumed that had been because I’d been small. Now I realize it wasn’t that at all.

He lifts his face to the rain, drops hitting his skin. “Let’s get out of this weather. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

My first instinct is to refuse, to tell him that I don’t want anything from him, but I realize how childish that would be. I’m not a child anymore.

“Okay,” I relent, “but not for long.”

He looks over my shoulder. “Do you have your car here?”

I shake my head. “I caught an Uber.”

His brilliant eyes widen a fraction. “To your own father’s funeral?”

“I didn’t have anyone to drive me.”

“Shit, Pen, I’m sorry.”

I’d forgotten his nickname for me, but he clearly hasn’t. It warms me to hear it again. I shrug as though it doesn’t really matter, though coming to the funeral alone has almost broken me.

“Where’s your dad’s car?” he asks.

“I had to sell it. I had to sell everything.”

Lines furrow the spot between his eyebrows. “Even the house?”

“Especially the house. The medical bills were just too much for us to afford.”

“Shit.” He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his long, woolen coat. “Where have you been living?”

I scuff my foot along the ground. “I’ve been couch surfing since Dad died, trying to figure out what I’m going to do next. I’ve been staying with my boyfriend—”

Something about his expression changes, a tightening around his mouth, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, is that so surprising? I’m eighteen now.”

“When you’re at your dad’s funeral, alone, yeah, it is.”

My cheeks heat and I glance away, not wanting to meet his eye. “He had to work.”

The truth is, my boyfriend, Tobias, isn’t so great at emotional situations.

He can’t handle any kind of outburst, and a funeral is his idea of a worst nightmare.

It had still stung, though, when he’d told me he couldn’t make it.

He’d insisted he hadn’t been able to get the time off from the garage where he works, but he and his boss are buddies, and I’m pretty sure he’d just asked his boss to say he had to work so he didn’t have to be here.

“I’ll drive, then,” Blake says. “Just one coffee. It sounds like we have a lot to catch up on.”