Preview of Her Last Breath
Preview of Her Last Breath by Hilary Davidson
Chapter 1
Deirdre
I didn’t know what to wear to the funeral. Any other day, I would’ve called my sister for advice, because Caro always knew the right way to do things. But she was dead, and I’d never hear her soft, husky voice again.
After pulling every piece of clothing I owned—all of it black—out of the tiny alcove I used as a closet, I put on a tunic that could pass for a dress. Then I added tights and a cardigan that hid the tattoos on my arms. My feet went into a pair of expensive, impractical heels that could only have been a gift from my sister. Climbing the stairs out of my basement apartment in Queens, I felt queasy. But it wasn’t until I took the subway into Manhattan and stood in front of the church that I felt like an imposter.
“Your name and invitation?” demanded a uniformed security guard.
“Deirdre Crawley. I’m Caroline Thraxton’s sister.”
The guard said something I didn’t catch because I was staring at the facade of the church, awash in déjà vu. Catholic churches with elaborate stone scenes of the Resurrection or Judgment Day were a dime a dozen. This one had the Crucifixion front and center, rendered with a grim intensity that hollowed out my chest.
“St. Vincent Ferrer,” I murmured. This was the church where my sister had gotten married four years earlier.
“What was the number on the back of your invitation?” the guard asked, clearly unsure whether he needed to be polite to me.
I blinked, trying to picture it. Some Thraxton minion had couriered the invitation over at six o’clock Monday evening. Remembering Caroline Anne Thraxton, it read, stark black type embossed on thick ivory stock. Please join us for a memorial service and luncheon. It had chilled me, the elegantly thorny black vines winding around her name, ready to choke it.
“You need that code,” the guard said. “You can’t get in without it.”
At that moment, a switch flipped in my brain. I’d barely slept the night before; the truth was I’d barely slept since my sister had died. All my grief spiraled into rage.
“My sister is dead, and you’re not keeping me out of her funeral.” My voice was razor edged.
As if sensing that I wanted to hit him, the guard pulled his head back sharply. I pushed past him and stormed up the steps.
Inside, white roses bloomed like a pox on the dark wood of every pew. Guests in couture laughed and gossiped. There were white ribbons and tulle wrapped around towering bouquets at the end of every aisle. The church looked exactly as it had at Caro’s wedding, and I felt as out of place as I had that day.
I drifted toward my sister’s casket, pulled along by some invisible cord. The upper portion was open, so you could see Caro’s perfect, unblemished face. My sister looked like nothing so much as Sleeping Beauty, golden blonde and rosy cheeked. I could almost imagine her sitting up suddenly, smiling as if this were all one big stunt to reunite our fractured family.
“I didn’t know I could miss anyone this much,” I whispered.
For a moment, in spite of the chattering crowd behind us, it felt like we were alone in that cavernous church. And then the spell was broken as a hand brandishing a gold claddagh ring touched down on the polished wood of the casket. I recognized my father before I saw his face. This was the moment I’d been dreading. My sister, in life, had run interference, keeping my father and me segregated in our respective corners on those rare occasions when we were forced into the same room.
We stared at each other for a moment. His blue eyes were hard and cold. He opened his mouth to speak, but I turned and stepped away before he had the chance.
I needed fresh air. My mind tripped over what my mother would’ve thought of the scene. Her eldest daughter dead, her husband and younger daughter at daggers.
As I exited the church, the guards shot me a curious glance, but the one who’d hassled me was gone. I clattered down the steps. It was a sunny day, for April. On the sidewalk stood a creep with a camera, and he pointed the lens at me. I turned away, pulling out my phone. I needed a distraction before I exploded.
That was the moment I first saw the email. You have a private message from Caroline Crawley.
My sister had been Caroline Thraxton since her wedding day. The sight of her birth name made the message seem like something out of time, a digital relic of a person who’d vanished four years ago.
When I clicked on it, the screen turned parchment yellow. Osiris’s Vault keeps all your data safe and secure, read the text at the top of the screen. Caroline Crawley wants you to read this letter.
There was an image of Osiris, the green-faced Egyptian god who was hacked to bits by his brother and reassembled by his sister. Mythology had been my thing as a kid, and I still loved it. Caro liked to tease me about the tattoo of an ankh—the Egyptian key of life—on my shoulder. Was this a sick joke? I scrolled down
Written above a text box were the words Caroline’s message to you. I took a breath.
Deirdre,
I keep thinking of Mom, and how you never believe you’re going to end up like one of your parents, until you do.
If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. No matter what it looks like, my death won’t be an accident. Theo killed his first wife and got away with it. Bring him to justice, no matter what you have to do.
I love you, Dodo. Always.
Caro
Preview of Her Last Breath by Hilary Davidson
