Della’s chest tightened. Kylie’s concern, and even Miranda’s desire to zap her father with a foot or private-part fungus, was why Della loved her two best friends. They cared. Everyone needed someone to care. Thank God she’d found them. Her sinuses stung, but she swallowed hard to keep her eyes from watering. She reached for the envelope, remembering the possibility that she might have an actual family member who would understand her. Maybe even care.
“You could have told him Marla mentioned he had a brother and you were curious,” Kylie continued. “Maybe he would have told you more about him.”
“You don’t know my dad. Anyway, Marla said she overheard him telling this to my mom, and while she asked my mom, my dad probably didn’t know she heard it. The last thing I want to do is get him mad at Marla. He’s already lost one daughter.”
“I guess so,” Kylie said.
“I still think he was an a**hole,” Miranda concluded.
“He was,” Della said, “but if I’d done what he suspected me of doing, then he had a right to be an a**hole.”
“But you didn’t do it,” Miranda snapped.
“No, but I looked guilty, and I couldn’t defend myself. So my only option is to just accept it.”
“That sucks,” Miranda said. “I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with being a supernatural and having to keep it from my parents.”
But that doesn’t make Miranda’s mom any less of an asswipe. Just before Della vocalized the thought, she decided it might be best to leave it unsaid.
How was it Holiday had put it? Just because crap pops in here—Holiday had tapped her temple—doesn’t mean crap has to pop out here. She had touched her lips. The camp leader had also said that supernatural scientists were considering doing medical research to prove vampires were missing the thingamajig that filtered out inappropriate dialogue. Della wasn’t sure if Holiday was joking or not.
But considering Holiday was married to Burnett, who was famous for speaking his mind, Della figured Holiday might be telling the truth.
Then again, Della had kind of spoken her mind even before she’d been turned.
She’d been suspended from kindergarten for telling the teacher she looked like Yoda in Star Wars—if Yoda was older, fatter, and smelled funny. That, of course, came after the teacher had asked Della why she had an Asian name, but didn’t look more Asian. At the time, Della had a supercomplex about being of mixed race and not looking more like all her Asian cousins. Especially when she didn’t even look like her mom, who was an all-American blonde.
Kylie leaned over and stared at the image. “So did you ask Burnett to see if he could help find out if your uncle is still alive?”
Della inhaled. “No, I don’t want to get the FRU involved.”
“You think your uncle could be rogue?” Kylie asked, sounding concerned.
“No, if he’s anything like my dad, he’s a rule follower. But if he isn’t registered or something I don’t want to be the person who gets him in trouble.”
“Burnett didn’t turn in my grandfather and aunt when he first discovered them,” Kylie said.
“That’s because they were chameleons. If they were anything else, he’d probably have done it. Being an agent, he’s officially obligated to report them. He actually told me that once when he asked me about Chan, my cousin.”
“So how are we going to find out?” Kylie asked.
The “we” in Kylie’s question tugged at Della’s emotional cords again. That was the kind of friends they were. When one of them was in trouble, they stuck together. But what wasn’t normal was Della feeling those tugs on her emotions. Was something wrong with her?
Pushing the emotion aside again, this time with a little more force, she said, “I was thinking of asking Derek if he might help. You said he worked for that PI once, and I know he’d helped you figure out a couple of your ghost issues.”
“That is a great idea. I think he and a bunch of guys were playing basketball when we headed up here,” Kylie said. “Why don’t we go see if we can find him?”
“Do we have to?” Miranda sighed. “There’s nothing worse than watching a bunch of sweaty, good-looking guys playing ball. I mean, they might even be taking off their shirts.” She grinned. “Not that any of them on the court could hold a candle to Perry. But eye candy is eye candy.”
Giggling, they started out. Della, her heartache eased, ran back to the table to get the photograph in case Derek needed to see it. When she slipped it back into the envelope, she got another whiff of Chase Tallman, the panty pervert. The emotional ripples of danger, of fear, hit again and chased away her lighthearted mood.
She really needed to figure out when and where she could have come in contact with him before. And the sooner the better.
“Told you they might have their shirts off,” Miranda whispered, and elbowed Della.
While it was October, fall had fallen behind and summer had snuck back in. At two in the afternoon, the sun beat down on the court. Della’s gaze, of its own accord, shot across the court of guys looking for one chest in particular. The sexy shape-shifter, Steve.
She found him, the same time his light brown eyes found hers. He had his shirt on, but it molded to his damp chest. Sweaty, his brown hair looked darker, and flipped up on the ends. He had the basketball in his hands and he smiled at her. Her heart did a tumble, and she fought to keep from putting off any pheromones.