Page 13 of Dead Pretty

“Nothing that interesting. Just a trim.”

“Damn. I think you would rock a blue Mohawk.”

“Hardly.” He laughs again.

My brother is a handsome guy. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, six feet tall.

We don’t look much alike.

“Have you been to the cemetery recently?” I ask him.

Our adoptive parents died in a car accident. Just before Tobias made his appearance in my life.

“No.” His answer is short and blunt.

Cole doesn’t like to talk about our parents’ deaths. Their deaths hit him hard. They hit me hard too. Losing them was devastating. I loved them so much.

Cole and I haven’t been lucky … if that’s the right word … when it comes to parents.

Our biological parents died when I was four and Cole was eight. They were murdered.

I don’t recall much about them, only the vague memory of what they looked like. But Cole remembers them. Not that he will talk to me about them either.

I think it’s harder for him because he has those memories of our biological parents.

Cole has lost two sets of parents that he loved. And I’m sure I would have loved our biological parents too. But it’s hard to mourn what you barely remember.

After our parents were gone, we were placed in a foster home, and we were lucky to both be adopted by our foster parents. Not many kids in the foster system get to stay with siblings. Honestly, I don’t think I would have coped without Cole.

Well, I know I wouldn’t have coped without him. He’s definitely the stronger of the two of us.

But it wasn’t until Tobias that I started to think that maybe I was cursed. First, my biological parents had been murdered. Then, my adoptive parents had died. Then, Tobias started stalking me and killing people.

Death follows me around; that’s for sure.

I think that Cole is safer, not being around me. Not that I would tell him this. He’d just say I was thinking crazy.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I say softly.

“You didn’t. I just don’t like talking about … them.”

And that’s why I ask, why I bring them up. Because I don’t think it’s healthy, not to talk about things.

But still, I say, “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry and tell me what you’ve been up to this week. And don’t give me the same nothing answer that you give me every week.”

“Actually, I—” I’m about to tell him about the cat and then stop. Because that conversation would lead to Jack, and for some reason, I really don’t want to tell him about Jack.

My brother is overprotective of me. He always has been. I think that’s why he finds it hard, not knowing where I am.

I know if I tell him about Jack, he’ll worry.

Not that there is anything to worry about.

I think.

“You what?” he prompts.