Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) by Gemma Halliday (best e reader for manga txt) 📗

totally not reading it. Her breath was coming in and out quickly, as if she was trying hard to rein in some emotion. I wasn't sure if it was sadness at the thought of Connor's funeral or anger at, along with all his other fans, being duped into thinking he was something he wasn't.

The period dragged as we conjugated verbs with their proper pronouns and recited how to ask where the baños and the biblioteca were located. Well, the class recited. I zoned out and spent most of the period watching the clock tick down with agonizing slowness.

When the bell finally rang, I tossed Ellen a smile and a "see you later" before I leapt out of my seat and practically ran into the hall. I didn't even bother stopping at my locker to swap out my books, instead making for the parking lot, feeling a little like I was leading a prison break. Which was silly since we had an open campus at lunch—half the student body left to pick up food, coffee, or generally just escape for a few unsupervised minutes. We were no different. Except for the fact that we'd be attending a funeral instead of waiting in line at Starbucks.

Considering our agenda that day, I'd worn a charcoal gray sweater dress over a pair of dark leggings and knee-high black boots. It was still casual enough for a day at school, but respectful enough for a memorial service. Sam had gone with a black A-line skirt, a navy button-down shirt, and a black cardigan and Mary Jane shoes to go with it.

Luckily, Chase was sort of always dressed in funeral black.

He was waiting for us at his car, and Sam and I arrived at almost the same time—me taking the back seat and Sam sliding into the passenger side. Though I quickly realized the back was no safer feeling than the front, the light speeds at which Chase drove slamming me from side to side even in the confines of my seat belt. I was glad I hadn't had the opportunity to actually eat lunch yet—if I had, it was likely to have made a repeat appearance.

We hurtled through space for a good fifteen minutes before Green Hills Memorial Home came into view. Once we landed—er, parked—I pressed a hand to my stomach, waiting for it and my other internal organs to join the rest of my body.

The building was a one story, long wooden structure, painted in a puke green color that had been popular sometime in the last century. Two long, black hearses sat to the right of the building under an overhang, and the small parking lot in the front was filled almost to capacity as mourners in dark suits and subdued dresses exited their cars and slowly walked up the pathway to the front doors.

We joined them, and I tried not to look as guilty as I felt, glancing at the sad faces of the people who actually knew Connor Simon. I watched an older couple enter ahead of us and vaguely wondered if they could be Connor's parents. Aunt and uncle? Hard to say. While there were a fair number of people in attendance, most seemed to be on the younger side, probably friends and colleagues of Connor's.

As we stepped into the main reception room a long table spanned the back wall, filled with flower arrangements and several framed photos of Connor in various smiling poses. While I obviously hadn't known Connor personally—and the more we learned about him, the less he seemed like a model citizen—I still felt a sudden wave of sadness at the images of a life cut short.

Sam nudged my arm. "There's Sophia." She nodded to the right, where the girl stood next to the flower arrangements. She was alone, and her eyes held a blank sort of stare, as if she were going through the motions of being at the event but her mind was a million miles away. Probably at a time when Connor was alive. While she'd worn a simple little black dress for the occasion, the way it clung to her slim hips and lay across her tanned collarbone, she looked more dressed for a fashion shoot than a memorial. Her hair was fluffed around her face in elegant waves, and while the makeup was tasteful, it was a little heavy for a daytime event. Sophia clearly expected to see and be seen.

Then again, she was a model, so maybe she always just looked that way.

"That's Connor's girlfriend?" Chase asked.

I nodded.

"She does look just like the Athena character," he noted. "Right down to those blue eyes."

I felt an odd sensation flutter in my belly as he talked about how blue the model's eyes were.

"They're probably contacts," I mumbled.

"Let's go talk to her. Maybe she can point out Pruit to us," Sam said. She didn't wait for an answer before leading the way toward the floral table.

I could see recognition hit Sophia's features as we approached, a small frown forming between her thick eyebrows. "You two again."

Not the most welcoming greeting I'd ever had, but then again we were crashing her boyfriend's funeral.

"Hi, Sophia. How are you holding up?" I asked.

She sniffed, eyes roving the room behind us. "It is what it is, you know?"

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Chase said.

Sophia's eyes went to his, and I could see her interest pick up. "Thanks. I don't believe we've met."

"Chase Erikson." He extended a hand her way, which she took in her manicured one. And held on to just a little too long if you asked me.

I cleared my throat. "He's our editor at the paper."

Sophia's eyebrows rose. "The editor? So, you are, like, in charge?" She looked down at his black T-shirt. Today sporting the image of an evil jack-o-lantern with a knife sticking out of its