Free Angel Crawford #2: Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues by Diana Rowland Page A

suicide while incarcerated.
Don’t give a shit
had been my mantra for the last several years, which I’d pulled off by neglecting and abusing myself far more than my mother ever had. I couldn’t go back to that uncaring attitude now. Not and survive. Maybe that was why that article stung so badly. I
did
give a shit, and it pissed me off that anyone might still think I didn’t.
    I snuck a glance at Marcus. He had a lazy smile on his face as he drove, clearly in a good mood. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the damn article now.
Let’s get through this party thing
, I told myself. An hour or so of making nice, and then I could get back to what passed for normal in my life.
    I had the first inkling I might be in over my head when Marcus made a turn in to a subdivision and had to stop at the guard gate to show his ID. A short ways past the gate I got a good look at the type of houses in here. Nothing less than two stories, and all big enough for mydinky house to fit into them half a dozen times over. Pristine yards, expensive cars, and the occasional jogger wearing an outfit that cost more than my car. I knew that Pietro Ivanov was, as Marcus put it, “filthy stinking rich,” but I was only now beginning to realize what that meant.
    After a few turns we pulled up to a three story—well, “mansion” was really the only word that worked. Pale grey brick, three stories, columns in the front, exquisite landscaping including trees near the front door that were shaped into spirals. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was that this was clearly not going to be “just a few people.” The broad circular driveway was already packed with cars, and the street had at least a dozen more lined up along it.
    I gave Marcus a panicked look. “I thought I was just meeting your uncle and a couple of others?”
    He winced. “I guess my uncle invited some more people over.”
    “Some?” I cast a frantic gaze over the ten or so cars in the driveway alone.
    He gave me a sheepish smile. “He did say it was a cookout. And he likes to have a big crowd.” He paused as he scanned the line of cars. “Looks like he invited my folks over as well. There’ll probably be a number of associates and family friends…” He trailed off at the aghast expression on my face.
    I stared at him. “Did you know this was a possibility?” He didn’t have to reply; the guilty expression on his face told me everything. “You
knew
. And you didn’t warn me? Marcus, how could you do this to me?”
    “Angel, relax. I knew you’d get nervous if I told you that you might be meeting my whole extended family—”
    “For good reason!” I wailed. I looked down at what I was wearing. I’d dithered for over half an hour on my clothes and had ended up with my nicest pair of jeans, a plain black sweater, and black boots. But the jeans were pretty low cut, and the sweater was a bit tight on me. Fine for meeting a zombie uncle, but…parents? I could lie to myself and say that I looked fashionable, but I was fairly certain I looked more skanky than vogue. I flipped the visor down to quickly peer at my reflection. Being well fed on brains was making my hair grow like crazy, which meant I had about half an inch of dark roots at the base of my bleached blond hair. Which made no sense to me at all. How could my hair grow if I was dead? I scowled as I swiped at my eye makeup in a doomed effort to make it look less whore-ish.
    “Angel, you look great. Please stop worrying.”
    I gave up on my makeup and settled for wiping away smudges. “Yeah, whatever,” I muttered, unable to hide my anger and hurt. “I guess I’m pretty much screwed now anyway.”
    He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and closed it. I started to get out of the truck but he reached out and caught my arm in a gentle grip. “I’m sorry.”
    I responded with a sour glare. He sighed and released me, but I didn’t make another move to get out.
    “I’m sorry,” he