Unfashionably Dead

Chapter Twenty-six

"I don't know who that man was, but you have to tell me all about...," I say as I step inside the apartment, my words cut off by a man dressed entirely in black standing beside the leather couch. A cape skirts down to his ankles and his head is covered with a mask and helmet. I immediately stop in my tracks, afraid to press any closer to the reaper who awaits me.

John snickers from behind me.

The reaper does not move, so I take a deep breath and notice ornaments still in their boxes, toy spacecrafts on the couch and tinsel heaped onto the floor, a few silver strands scattered across the charcoal tile. I inch forward, but do not take my eyes off the reaper.

It isn't until I cross into the living room that little green spikes venturing out of the reaper's cape come into view... The reaper is, in fact, a Christmas tree designed to look like Darth Vader.

John gives a throaty laugh. "You thought it was a reaper, didn't you?"

I whip around to answer him. "No, I didn't."

He smiles, perhaps for the first time ever, and the dark circles around his eyes seem to lighten. He tilts his chin downward. He totally doesn't believe me.

I walk toward the tree to study the cape, duchess satin from its stiff appearance. "Okay, maybe I did, but who makes a Darth Vader Christmas tree?"

"A true Star Wars fan? Someone who wants to annoy his mother when she comes over tomorrow night?"

That would probably do it. Or at least it would annoy my mom.

"I thought you lived with your mom."

He reaches for one of the spaceships and places it on a branch toward the top, about where Darth Vader's heart would be. "Everyone thinks that. She has her own place on the second floor, but she's almost always here. A waste of my money since I pay for both our places."

"That's really nice of you."

"Thanks. She's been hounding me to put up a tree since Thanksgiving, and so here I am, appeasing her when I really only want to sleep."

I wait quietly, considering the best way to proceed with my questions, as he places the toys onto the branches. The final product is spectacular and one certain to please a fan. It's also guaranteed to get a rise out of his mom if she's at all religious.

"You're here for a reason, and it wasn't to watch me decorate the tree," John says as he stuffs the toy packaging into a plastic bin.

I hover to his desk, where three black chess pawns, about eight inches tall, grace the top shelf. The pawns each have a face carved into them. The faces are macabre, their expressions twisted into a grimace, their soulless eyes frozen in desperation, as though they were captured once all remnants of hope had been drained from their body.

Another pawn —this one without the intricate carving— sits next to his laptop, beside a picture of his mom and he with a teen girl. I lean in to take a better look at the picture.

"Don't touch it!" John screams.

I stop moving, but I am close enough to glimpse the picture. The girl has the same dark hair and eyes and pasty skin as John. "You have a sister?"

A frown crosses his face and he whitens. "She died in a boating accident over the summer."

I now recall the news reports. Three teens dead. Father and daughter found alive in the Gulf two days after the boat capsized. One body unaccounted for. Dad arrested for operating a motor vehicle while intoxicated.