Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
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With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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It felt like every person I knew was here, their eyes swollen from crying, their words hushed. Talk of celebrating Damien's life had shifted back into mourning as the day had gone on. No amount of colourful clothes and warm memories could add hope to a black day of death. The Steele house was full of people. They'd hired catering staff who hovered about discreetly with trays of food and drinks like this was a Christmas party. The stormy sky peeking in through the windows as dark as everyone's mood. I was standing next to Mari, nibbling with an iron stomach on some pastry I could barely taste whilst she was scanning the room. The twins were playing near the crackling fireplace with a few other children, unaware or having already moved on from the gloom of the day. Alice was sitting in a deep leather armchair, staring absently out of a window, Mum hovering around her - reminding her to eat and drink. Alice had spoken at the funeral. Her words simple but heartfelt. She loved him. And his death had altered her forever. And maybe for the first time, I really understood that she meant those words.
Dad was talking to David Steele in the darkest corner of the room. I could tell by the ferocious way they were moving their hands it was about the case. Damien's dad looked the same as always and I wonder what mask he was wearing today- was it the grieving father or an opportunist politician?
"Are you OK?" Mari asks, her severe eyes fixed on me.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I say, with a shrug. Stuffing the small pastry into my mouth simply for something to do with my hands.
"I don't know. I'm just aware this might mean something different to you than the rest of us."
I swallow the food down uncomfortably, knowing what she was asking, but not sure how to respond. Glancing around at the solemn faces. The floral smell that symbolised life rather than death. I feel so detached from this. Death is a hypothetical thing, even when it looms over your life like a mountain, casting shadows over everything.
"If anyone sings amazing grace, I'll claw out of my grave and haunt you all."
I smile and expect a reaction to the joke, but she looks sad. Fallen.
"Why do you always do that? Why do you always talk like dying is inevitable? You're going to survive this, Calla."
People call it fighting. Being brave. But survival isn't really like that. You get up because you have no choice. I have always had the odds in my favour, or at least I once did. But every time I see my future through the fog of disease, something new blocks my view. Another complication, another virus, another setback. The odds mean nothing to me now. Maybe the numbers say I'm more likely to live than die, but numbers lie.
"You want to know my view on funerals and then hold it against me because I have one?"
"Calla..."
"I'm going to find Larissa." I lie, leaving my plate on the small side table and leaving Mari's side before she can say anymore.
