Before Doug could answer, a too-familiar voice sliced through the murmurs of the funeral home.
“My daughter!”
The sound of her father’s fake grief hit her like a slap. Monica’s spine stiffened as she turned, finding Craig striding toward the casket, his arm around the much-younger, very pregnant woman he’d left their mother for. The sight of him brought a rush of old pain and raw fury clawing up her throat.
He pressed a hand to his chest, shaking his head dramatically for the crowd as crocodile tears streaked down his cheeks. “Open this casket right now!” he bellowed. “I need to see my daughter!”
The room went still. All eyes turned toward him. Monica’s nails dug into her palms until she felt the sting of skin breaking.
“That son of a bitch,” she muttered, stepping forward.
Doug caught her arm before she could move farther. “Go outside, Monica,” he said, low but firm. “I’ll handle this.”
Her eyes stayed locked on Craig’s theatrics, on the way his new wife clung to him like a prize won in a dirty game. “I’m going to kill him,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I know,” Doug replied. “That’s why you need to go.”
Every muscle in her body screamed to stay, to call Craig out for the fraud he was. But the pitying stares and the tension inside the room made her pause. Staying and making a bigger scene wasn’t worth giving the bastard the satisfaction. Beverly didn’t deserve that. Dena didn’t deserve that.
Monica lifted her chin and walked out, ignoring the whispers trailing behind her. Each step toward the door felt heavier. As she reached the night air, her hands shook. She wrapped her arms around herself, swallowing the grief and rage that threatened to tear her in half.
Inside, Craig’s voice carried again, louder this time as the bastard continued showboating for an audience. Walking a little further away, she bent slightly, taking in deep breaths.
The feeling of someone walking up behind her made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. Instantly, she knew exactly who it was. She sighed and groaned at the same time. “Fuck.”
CHAPTER 4
Kane stood at the back of the funeral home, silent and still, watching. The room was thick with the scent of lilies and loss, and the low murmur of grief rolled like distant thunder. People clustered in quiet groups—some hugging, some staring blankly at the closed casket near the front. Every face seemed carved from the same stone of sorrow. His eyes zeroed in on the picture placed on the casket. The resemblance to Monica was uncanny. The woman smiled, her eyes bright with light as she stared into the camera. It was such a senseless loss, which pissed Kane off.
He scanned the crowd again, his sharp gaze catching every movement, every whisper. Two men stood at the head of the casket, their expressions strained and hollow as they accepted condolences. Kane studied them a moment longer. According to Jinx’s information, one must be a brother and the other, the grieving husband. He had to give Jinx credit; the guy knew his shit. Family resemblance ran deep because he would bet that the man on the left was Monica’s brother.
Blending in had never been his thing. At six-foot-four, with wild black hair brushing his shoulders and eyes too gold to pass ashuman, he stuck out like a vampire in a room full of humans. He could feel the curious glances, the subtle unease that came with his presence, but he ignored it. His focus was on the reason he was there.
Monica Vail.
He knew she was here. Her car was parked out front, but knowing she was inside and actually spotting her were two different things.
Just as he was about to shift positions, movement near the side hallway caught his eye. The restroom door opened, and Monica stepped out. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red and swollen from too many tears. Beside her walked a woman with dark hair, neatly pinned back, holding the hand of a little girl who couldn’t have been more than six.
The woman bent, whispering something to the child before guiding her toward a chair near the wall. Monica watched them for a moment, then turned toward the front of the room.
Kane tracked her as she wove through the mourners. Every emotion she felt was locked down tight behind a mask she’d probably worn for years. When she reached the man at the head of the casket, his face broke at the sight of her. He pulled her into a hug.
Kane saw the way her shoulders shook just once before she steadied herself, pulling back to speak quietly to him. The man, who Kane figured was her brother, nodded, his jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the little girl now seated quietly with the woman.
Kane’s gut twisted as his gaze flicked between the child and Monica. The resemblance was faint but definitely there in thesame shape of the eyes and tilt of the chin. His mind churned. Was that her daughter?
Before he could dig any deeper into the thought, a man’s voice shattered the quiet hum of grief.
“My daughter!”
The sound sliced through the air, raw and loud enough to make several mourners flinch. Kane’s head snapped toward the disturbance. A man in an expensive suit was shoving through the crowd, dragging along a much younger, and very pregnant woman in his wake. The scene was so out of place it felt almost obscene against the soft sobs and whispered condolences.
Kane’s attention shifted instantly to Monica. She’d gone rigid as the man’s voice echoed off the walls. The expression on her face was pure, unfiltered rage. Not grief or shock, but pure hatred. The kind that came from deep wounds and long memories.
“Open this casket right now!” the man demanded, his voice breaking with what seemed a practiced edge of fake sorrow. “I need to see my daughter!”
Murmurs spread through the room. The man by the casket—Monica’s brother, Kane guessed—stepped forward, saying something sharp under his breath. Monica had already taken a step toward the chaos, her jaw tight, but her brother caught her arm. Whatever he said stopped her in her tracks.