Free A Touch Mortal by Leah Clifford Page A

the front there wasn’t even a passing resemblance. From the corner of her eye, Eden caught the shake of Kristen’s head, spun back just in time to catch her gaze flash to the guy and back.
    “You may have killed yourself thinking you’d get to be with him, but this isn’t the afterlife, sweet pea. It’s the Bronx.” Kristen flicked the cigarette and hit it again. “You won’t find him here.”
    Kristen dropped what was left of the cigarette, crushing it underfoot with her last step before she came to a stop. She handed over the piece of newspaper she’d been holding.
    It was an obituary. The picture showed a woman in her twenties. Eden scanned the article. Car accident. Fashion student. “What’s this?”
    “Passing knowledge of the deceased. Proper funeral-crashing etiquette dictates at least knowing her name.” Kristen tipped her head to the side.
    The parlor looked like a normal house, designed to blend from the white siding down to the choice of flowers in the mulched beds. Only the wooden sign staked down in the middle of the lawn betrayed its purpose. That and the well-dressed mourners plodding up the walkway. Cars lined either side of the street.
    “It’s packed in there already and we’re fifteen minutes early. My theory, proven once again,” Kristen said, climbing the stairs.
    “What theory would that be?”
    “Everyone adores a tragedy.” The door opened before them, the suited usher nodding, his expression serious until he actually looked at them.
    “Hey, Paul.” Kristen raised a hand, giving him a slight wiggle of her fingers. She gasped, gripping the sides of her dress in excitement. “You’ve redecorated! And such a wonderful eye for color! Cheers to the death of that dreadful wallpaper,” she exclaimed, taking in the hallway beyond. “Eden, meet Paul. His dad owns this place.”
    “And he told you you’re not allowed to be here. Why don’t you just hang out at Starbucks like a normal girl?”
    As if a switch flipped, Kristen’s delight faded. “This one I know, Paul.”
    Eden stared between the two of them. Paul wasn’t sold. Not even with Kristen’s pained expression, the dramatic sigh before she went on. “Amanda was my babysitter when I was little, our neighbor. I hadn’t seen her since we moved, but my mother requested that I make an appearance since she’s unable to attend.” She added a sad shake of her head, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to get you into trouble, Paul. I only need a few minutes.”
    He nodded, blushing with embarrassment.
    When they were safely out of his earshot and into the main viewing room, Kristen murmured, “That’ll teach him to call me out.”
    “You’re sick. You know that, right?”
    Kristen snorted a laugh, twisted it into a sob, covering her mouth with her hand. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m skilled. What you just witnessed?Beginner’s manipulation. And also a classic example of why research pays.” She sniffed, tossing the tissue into the trash.
    “Look.” Eden glanced around. The room was filling up, family and actual friends occupying the rows of chairs. “Why are we even here?”
    Kristen had led them to the receiving line. She tilted her head toward the man standing five feet to the side of the coffin, greeting each of the mourners after they paid their last respects. “Frank Watson. In seventeen days he’ll celebrate the big five-oh. He’s a CEO, but an honest one. Old money—the family has a crypt in the cemetery down the street. Usually upbeat, a nearly unbearable brand of cheerful. If I had spread Touch to him last week, chances are the Touch wouldn’t have killed him.”
    There it was again, the same word Adam had used. “What is that? Touch?”
    “Am I not explaining that now, Eden? Really, try to show some patience.” Kristen crossed her arms, taking a few steps to keep up with the line, but staying far enough from the mortals that they wouldn’t be overheard. “How are you