“Look at you,” her aunt Miao said, her gaze shifting up and down Della. “All grown up. What’s it been, a year, since I saw you?”

“I think so,” Della said.

Her aunt grinned, even though it didn’t show in her eyes. Della remembered when her smiles always made it to her dark eyes and they regularly came with a light laugh. That was before Chan’s death—the one he faked.

For some strange reason, Della recalled her aunt at the funeral saying she couldn’t believe it, that Chan didn’t feel dead, and a mother would know.

Did she feel it now? Did she sense that Chan was really gone? Della felt the air shutter in her lungs.

Just like that, Della felt guilty again. She’d lived and Chan had died. And the guy who made that choice was waiting in the car. She’d stopped blaming Chase, but perhaps she hadn’t completely gotten over the guilt.

“You finally got some boobs, young lady,” her aunt said.

“It’s a padded bra.” Della tried to tease back, but the humor fell short when she realized how much she’d missed her aunt. How much she missed her old life.

“It can’t all be padding,” her aunt said. And then her smile faded. “Is something wrong? Everyone is okay, right?”

“Yes. I just…” She had to think fast. “I was … my class went to the Funeral Museum. You know, that crazy museum about caskets, embalming people, and all that crap.”

“Oh, my, that would make for a cheery afternoon,” she said. “For what class?”

“Science.” She really should have come up with a better lie, but it was the only museum Della could remember around here.

“I wish Meiling was here to see you. She’s at the library studying with her friends.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Della said, but she wasn’t. She needed to talk to her aunt alone. “I realized how close we were to your house and I had one of my friends, who was driving, stop off so I could say hi.”

“Well, bring her in.”

Him. Then Della decided it was best to let her assume. “Uh, nah. She’s totally attached at the hip to her phone. Facebook and stuff.”

“Kids are like that nowadays. I refuse to allow Meiling to bring hers to the dinner table. Families need to talk.” A touch of sadness filled her expression. Della knew she was thinking about Chan.

“Yes,” Della agreed, but talking about things had been hard in this family—especially if it had anything to do with the past. She tried to figure out how to bring up the subject of Natasha.

“Let me fix you some tea,” her aunt said.

I don’t have time for tea. “I can’t stay but for a few minutes.” They moved deeper into the house.

“Just one cup.” All of a sudden, her aunt looked up at the heating vent in the ceiling. “I swear my heater is on its last leg. Let me turn it up.”

Della felt it then. The balminess in the room had vanished, an iciness filled the air, but it wasn’t a normal kind of cold.

A dead cold. Don’t make it snow. Don’t make it snow!

Miao left to go adjust the heat. Della muttered under her breath, “So, you are my aunt, Bao Yu?” Saying her name made it somehow feel real.

No answer came. And that’s when she saw it. Like a smear on a glass, something flickered a few feet in front of her. Slowly, the shimmer became visible and the ghost appeared. While she stood with her back to Della, staring in the direction Miao had gone, Della stared at her.

There was something familiar about the way the spirit’s black hair rested on the shoulder. The shape of her head. The curve of her neck.

An emotional current shot through Della’s veins.

“Natasha?” Della said. Tears formed in her eyes and her knees weakened. Holiday was right. Natasha was dead.

Chapter Thirty-four

“Did you say something?” her aunt said, walking back, never glancing at the spirit, and with good reason. She obviously couldn’t see her.

The spirit turned and looked at Della. The sharp edge of Della’s panic faded when she saw her face. Della grabbed the edge of an overstuffed chair to steady herself. It wasn’t Natasha.

It was her aunt. The face was the same one she’s seen in her father’s yearbook. The same face she’d seen in the vision covered in blood. But the similarities between her and Natasha were too strong to be a coincidence.

Right then, Della knew the lie Natasha had mentioned in her diary. She’d been adopted. And she also knew the tie between the ghost and Natasha. They were mother and daughter.

Natasha was her cousin.

But how could that be? Her aunt would have barely been a teen when the child would have been born. Della quickly did the math, guessing ages, and realized her aunt could have been fifteen or sixteen.

Show her. The ghost’s words seemed to echo in the house, but Della figured only she could hear them.

Show her what? Then Della suddenly knew. She reached into her pocket for the photo. “I … Chan gave this to me.” It was a lie, but what else could she say? The truth certainly wouldn’t suffice.

Her aunt’s hand shook as she took the picture. Her breathing came quicker. When she looked up, her eyes shimmered with tears. “I have searched for this picture.” She blinked several times and then swallowed.

“She’s my cousin, isn’t she?” Della asked.

Her aunt nodded then looked back down at the photo. Slowly, she ran her finger over the image of Chan and then Natasha. “Yes. I…” She blinked and a few tears slipped from her short black lashes. “She showed up on my doorstep, and I knew before she even spoke to me that she was my niece. She is so much like her mother.” Her voice shook a little. “I had to tell her. Tell her the truth. She cried and I cried with her.”

Bao Yu moved closer. What truth? Ask her for the truth.

“What did you tell her, Aunt Miao? What is the truth?”

“That her mother … is gone. But Bao Yu loved her. She only gave her away because our parents couldn’t accept it. They were old-school. And the father’s parents would not even accept it was his child. She didn’t have a choice. She had to give her away. She was told that the child would go to a family with some Asian heritage. That they would love her.”

I wanted to keep her. The ghost’s voice rang out in desperation. I cried so hard when they took her away from me. She was my baby. Mine!

Another question sat on the tip of Della’s tongue. She needed to ask, needed to know. “How? How did Bao Yu die?”




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