The Single Undead Moms(91)

If I survived this, I was going to hold on to this rake. It was clearly a lucky rake.

My opponent did not appreciate being splattered all over the grass via lawn tools. He bounced up onto his feet and yelled, “Crazy bitch!”

When I took exception to this, swinging the rake over my shoulder like a bat again and marching across the grass toward him, he leaped to his feet and ran off into the night.

“Rude,” I muttered.

Wade’s voice sounded behind me. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you dig a trench in the school’s front yard?”

I turned to face him, and he shrank back at the sight of my bruised face and torn clothes.

“Honey, did ya trip over the rake?”





13




You should be just as respectful to authority figures and public servants, even if you can now drain them dry. Because your kids are watching you. Also, because it’s still illegal to drain authority figures and public servants dry.

—My Mommy Has Fangs: A Guide to Post-Vampiric Parenting

I woke up the next evening feeling oddly vulnerable. The bruises left behind by El Chupacabra were long healed, but the sensation of having a rake handle jammed into my cleavage remained.

Just after my assailant had flounced off into the woods, Wade had come rolling up in his pickup truck. Seeing me bent over at the waist and bleeding from my mouth (I wasn’t sure how that happened), Wade had hopped out of the truck and run to me. Even though I was already healing, he was furious that I’d been hurt while he was driving around gathering game booths.

He’d driven me home immediately, Pumpkin Patch equipment be damned, and helped me clean up before Kerrianne brought Danny and Harley home. As promised, we watched It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and drank hot cocoa. Well, I had blood mixed with a very strong dose of whiskey, but it made me feel nice and toasty. The kids fell asleep with their swords and throwing stars clutched against their chests. (Harley thought the Great Pumpkin was pretty sketchy and wanted a defense system.)

I should have called Jane. I should have driven directly to the shop and reported the incident. But I just wanted to get home, to see my son and try to feel normal. After I’d put Danny down for the night, Wade insisted that I send her a text, which I did after he watched me bolt every window and door in the duplex. Long, long after he watched me bolt the doors and windows . . . as in, right before I went to bed for the day. But knowing that she would come running, risking sun exposure, if I gave her too many details, I’d kept my text vague. “Incident” after the Pumpkin Patch Party. Need to discuss tomorrow night and fill out report.

I was not proud of myself, but I just couldn’t face questions and paperwork at that moment.

The next night, I ran my fingertips over my forehead, checking for a head-butt dent, as I shuffled toward the basement stairs. On the bottom step, I heard the sound of a strange male voice coming from my living room. I didn’t think my feet touched the wood on my ascent back to the basement door. I shoved the door open and skidded across the linoleum on my socked feet. At the sound of Kerrianne’s calm, measured voice, I paused to take stock of the situation.

I poked my head around the corner and peered into the living room. Kerrianne was sitting on the couch while Danny talked to a lanky man with graying blond hair in a Half-Moon Hollow Police Department uniform. I recognized Sergeant Russell Lane from two years earlier, when I’d waited outside the emergency room for news after Rob’s accident. Lane had all sorts of questions about whether Rob had a drinking problem (no), if he had problems sleeping (no), whether he texted while he drove (yes, even when Danny and I were in the car with him and I begged him not to do it). He was not particularly helpful in terms of a public servant. Any comfort he offered me was in the vein of “I’m sure this wasn’t your fault, ma’am, just because he was driving home late from work and probably very tired from working overtime. I’m sure supporting his family didn’t lead to his untimely death.” (He was actually coming home from practicing with his employer’s softball team, but thanks for trying.) So really, I wasn’t very happy about the idea of him talking to my son without me.

I crept to the door, listening carefully from a position where Sergeant Lane couldn’t see me. Kerrianne noticed the movement in the hallway and opened her mouth to speak, but I pressed a finger to my mouth and shook my head. She nodded and focused on Sergeant Lane.

Danny was fascinated by all of the big-boy toys on Sergeant Lane’s police belt, poking at his Taser. “Can I play with that?”

“No,” the policeman told him. “Not until you’re at least ten.”