Realizing that I had no time to waste, I began to trudge down the Mayhews’ driveway. But by the time I’d reached the main road, which would eventually lead me to the highway on which the Mayhews’ cemetery was located, I seriously regretted my choice of shoes. Only a few steps on the asphalt of the main road, and I’d decided to go barefoot like I used to.

I’d just paused to slip off my heels when an unfamiliar car with rental plates pulled over in front of me on the shoulder of the road. With my toes still caught in the top of my left shoe, I stumbled backward slightly. I didn’t know why, but I suddenly had the instinct to run. When the door opened, however, I relaxed a bit: I recognized the man stepping out of the car, although I wasn’t particularly happy to see him.

“Hello, Felix,” I said drily, slipping my left foot back into its shoe. “Stopping by to wing me with your forty-five?”

Felix paused halfway between me and the bumper of his car and slipped his hands into the pockets of his funeral blazer. After a beat, he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“It wasn’t technically my forty-five.”

“Oh, well, that makes everything better.”

Felix shook his head, cringing at my tone. “Amelia, I really am sorry about that. I didn’t want to do it, but . . . but . . .”

“But what?” I snapped. “But you thought threatening us with a machete would have been less effective than a semiautomatic?”

Felix’s contrite frown transformed abruptly into a scowl. He jerked his hands from his pockets and threw them into the air angrily.

“God, Amelia, you’re a freaking hypocrite, you know that?”

“I’m . . . I’m a what?”

At first, I was too stunned to get angry. That moment didn’t last long, though—only a few more seconds passed before I was fuming. If I could have touched Felix, I would have stormed over and smacked him right in the face.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Felix, but I’ve never shot at the person you loved, have I?”

“No, you haven’t,” he said, suddenly calmer. “But you would do just about anything to keep Joshua out of hell, right?”

That wasn’t the response I’d expected.

“Right . . . ?” I answered, unsure where he was taking this.

“So would you kill for him?” Felix asked, leaning forward intently. “Would you threaten to kill for him?”

When I didn’t answer right away, Felix pressed me further.

“What about for your mother?” he asked. “Or for your sister, if you had one? Would you do anything—and I mean anything—to get them out of hell? Including pointing a gun at the one person who might hold the key to their escape?”

Everything clicked into place in my mind, and I slumped out of my defensive stance.

“Felix,” I breathed, moving toward him slightly. “I know you miss Gaby. And I’m trying—I’m really trying—to figure out a way to save her. But . . . a gun?”

“I know.” He sighed and shook his head. “It was Annabel’s idea. But you have to admit: it did get you to use your powers.”

“You couldn’t have tried a less lethal way?”

Felix lifted one shoulder in a shrug—on him, the movement looked so much like the shrugs Gaby gave me, when she wanted to pretend she didn’t care.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have said yes. And I’m sorry.”

Here, in his remorse, was my opportunity to secure another part of my slowly forming plan for Saturday night. But did I dare take it? I considered him for a moment longer, before making up my mind.

“Where did the gun come from, anyway?” I asked him, keeping my tone blasé.

He gave a bitter little laugh. “I found it stashed in a desk drawer in the actress’s apartment in New Orleans, before I left. It’s unregistered, as far as I can tell, so I doubt she’s going to come looking for it. If and when she ever gets out of rehab, that is.”

That’s good, I thought. That’s very good.

I flashed Felix my sweetest smile. “Can I see it?”

He hesitated, giving me a wary look. Then he reached into his coat and pulled the gun from his belt. I took it from him carefully, marveling at how heavy it really was. I could feel the coldness of the metal through my gloves. Then I glanced back up at him as innocently as I could and made him an offer.

“Let me keep it for you, in my purse. Just until Sunday morning. You know, in case I get attacked between now and then.”

I didn’t look up from the gun, but I could sense Felix’s reluctance. Finally, he said, “Okay. Just be careful with it, all right? And don’t decide to shoot me, either.”

“Of course,” I said, slipping the handgun into my purse. “I would never shoot at you, Felix. And I promise: I won’t use this unless I have to, to save someone’s life.”

When I made that promise, he relaxed visibly; he even smiled. After a beat, he took a step back and gestured to the car.

“Want a ride to the funeral?” he asked.

I gave him another wide, innocent smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Then, with the gun bumping against my hip through the purse, I followed him to the car.

Chapter

TWENTY-THREE

Ruth’s memorial service lasted longer than any other funeral I’d attended. The number of speakers and eulogizers and gnashers of teeth at this thing was crazy. Of all the people integrally involved in the memorial, I didn’t recognize a single one. Each member of the Mayhew family stayed firmly planted in his or her seat. Even stranger, I caught Jeremiah grinning every now and then.

Finally, I couldn’t stand the mystery any longer. I tilted my head toward Joshua—who had easily forgiven me for being a few minutes late—and, from the corner of my mouth, whispered, “Any explanation for all this?”

He kept his eyes glued to his grandmother’s closed casket, but he smiled just like his father. “Grandma Ruth planned this funeral a long time ago,” he explained quietly. “What you’re watching now is a carefully orchestrated production. Most of those people are members of Ruth’s old coven, and they’re reciting lines from a script she wrote for them. Think of it as . . . funeral theater.”

I shook my head in genuine surprise. Then I started to grin too. It made perfect sense that Ruth’s iron fist would reach out from beyond the grave to control her own funeral. But whatever the intended purpose of this spectacle, it also had an inadvertent—but no less positive—effect: the Mayhews themselves were having a great time watching it. One singer hit an off-key high note, and Jillian suppressed a giggle; a eulogizer called Ruth a “fount of mercy and gentleness,” and Rebecca fought off a snicker. The other members of the family were no exception.

The first truly somber moment came when the funeral-home director called for all the attendees to file past the grave. I took my dutiful place in line and silently thanked Ruth for instructing that her casket be kept closed. Turning away from the sight of all the white flowers piled atop Ruth’s coffin, I focused harder on Joshua so that I could take his hand in mine. He didn’t turn around, but he gave my fingers a firm squeeze. I knew what that squeeze meant: that this part would be far more painful than the actual service. This part would be real.

After paying our respects at the grave, we all returned to our seats but remained standing in front of them. At this point, non–family members came by to give their condolences and their hugs. Then, slowly, they left the cemetery in groups.

While people began wandering toward their cars, I hung back, trying to give Joshua some much-needed alone time with his sister and parents. Soon, Annabel as well as her little sister and parents joined that small gathering, as did Drew and his mother. Together, this group of Ruth’s children and grandchildren talked and cried and even laughed, for almost another hour. And I didn’t mind the wait at all.