Chapter 2

Ade certainly tried. The funeral was in chaos. Since the protester had left, about half the congregation were on their phones. Scandalized whispers blanketed the graveyard. I didn’t know why any of them were pretending to be shocked, though. Ralph Hedley’s wife was a swan. The news had broken almost as soon as Hedley had died, plastered everywhere from the blogosphere to CNN.

I wasn’t quite sure how people even found out, to be honest. There was no way a prominent New York socialite like Clarice Hedley would have told anyone she was a swan. The shame alone would have killed her.

I personally tried not to let myself get carried away with unproven rumours. But I was almost a hundred percent certain that half of the millionaires and socialites currently feigning shock right now had already gossiped about this at length behind closed doors.

Soon the limos started to arrive. People were fleeing. I was sure they’d turn up to the reception to gossip some more. Ericka blocked her baby’s face from the paparazzi and turned to the rest of us. “We’ll have to wait at the church until our ride gets here. Come on.” A little too eagerly, she yanked me by the wrist, so hard I almost dropped the jacket still slung over my shoulders.

“Relax, Ericka,” I said, pulling my arm out of her grasp. After one last look at the feathers on the ground where Trench-Coat Girl had stood, I followed her.

“Ugh. Are we seriously still going to the reception? After all that?” Ade leaned over the back of my pew, her head cushioned by her arms. “When a naked swan shows up at a funeral and accuses the dead guy of enslaving his wife, isn’t it time to call off the after party?”

“Ralph Hedley, a feather stealer. But it’s just a rumor, right? I mean, how could she really know for sure?” I swiveled around to face Ade properly, one leg on the pew, the other balancing Ericka’s sleeping baby. “I mean, just because a man has a swan for a wife, that doesn’t necessarily mean he stole her feathers to…” How did Trench-Coat Girl put it? To win her love. It was just so creepy. I rested my head against my hand. “Who was that girl, anyway?”

“Way ahead of you.”

When I looked up again, Ade’s cell phone was in my face. On the screen was a picture of Trench-Coat Girl, minus the nudity, being dragged away by an officer while a mass of young adults yelled things at a line of police officers in riot gear. The headline above it read: Activists Arrested at G8 Summit. Chaos in the streets.

“Her name is Shannon Dalhousie and apparently she’s a domestic terrorist. Or an activist. One of those.”

I took the phone out of her hands and inspected the picture again, scrolling down. “Oh, there’s a statement from her: ‘I know a lot of people in this country don’t want to face reality, but the truth is forced labor is a real problem in this country. People turn a blind eye while companies in Arkansas, California, Florida, Georgia, New York and so many others smuggle in so called “guest workers” to till the fields that make our bread. They use that term because it’s so much easier than calling them what they are: swans – swans promised a better life and then forced to work for no pay without any social securities. How can the leaders of the world meet in their ivory towers to discuss the world’s economy without addressing the vast social, economic and political inequalities that keep money in the hands of the few, while–?’”

“Damn, we get it. You’re a defender of truth and justice and whatnot. Shit.” Ade rolled her eyes and slipped her phone into her purse. “You know, what I don’t really get about this whole Hedley thing is, if he really did steal his wife’s feathers, why didn’t she just say something? Like call the police or something? At the very least Shannon Dalhousie wouldn’t have had to flash her tits in front of a congregation of mourning millionaires. At least not so early in the morning.”

“I don’t think Hedley’s wife could have told anyone even if she wanted to…”

And that was the part that always freaked me out the most about feather-stealing. They say that once a swan’s feathers are stolen, so is his or her free will. After that, a swan’ll have no choice but to stay silent. If Shannon was right and the rumors were true… then Ralph Hedley really was a monster.

Dad never really talked about him much when we were growing up, even though for a short period of time I was friends with his son, Hyde. Well, “friends” may have been a strong term for it. The two of us had met at a Hedley Publications benefit my dad and the other accountants had been invited to. After that, Hyde just sort of followed me around, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge for “play dates” he’d scheduled on his own. The boy was definitely a little needy. But I came to like him anyway. I’d always wondered what Ralph had thought about Hyde and me hanging out, or if he even cared. Maybe he was just too busy enslaving his wife to notice what their adopted son was up to.

Ericka approached, phone in hand, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. “Charles finally sent a car to pick us up.” Charles, aka Beanpole, aka Ericka’s rich husband. Her face looked wiry and old, the way it always did when she was flustered.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Something happen?”

Ericka blinked. “What? Oh, no. Nothing.”

Ade and I exchanged a glance. Fight. Beanpole wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. Case in point: you’d think having a wealthy brother-in-law would mean that we, at the very least, would be able to afford a new sink faucet.

“Ericka, we’ve been over this: handouts will just make your father even more lazy than he already is.” That was what he’d said the last time I saw him – more than a full year ago. Did I mention he lives in Manhattan?

“Well, Charles is a bit busy right now. Now that Ralph Hedley is dead, there are a lot of legal matters that the company’s lawyers have to sort out – like who’ll head the company, where his assets will go, and so on and so forth. It’s a lot of work, so he’s a bit...” She fell silent. As usual. “Anyway, I’ll take François. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Ericka lifted her baby out of my arms and, after a little while, we left the church, walking down the stone steps together. A sleek black car waited for us on the other side of the graveyard with a black-hatted driver standing to attention by the door. I tried not to think of the bones beneath my heels as we zigzagged past the headstones. We stayed well away from Hedley’s grave, just in case there were still photogs milling about, except, from what I could see, they’d pretty much cleared out.

The only one left at Hedley’s gravesite was a guy – just one random guy.

No, he had been at the funeral too. I realized it once I got a better look. He was the guy on the bench. In his black vest, short-sleeved shirt and gray beanie, he stood directly in front of Hedley’s grave. The stone angel towered over him, silent tears carved into its face.

The driver opened the door for us. In front of me, Ade shot a bemused glance my way. Fancy cars and drivers with hats. Since Charles controlled all of his money, we really didn’t get opportunities like this, despite being Ericka’s little sisters. I put my hand on the door.

“Oh damn!” My hand flew to my right arm instead. Bare. “Where’s my jacket?”

Ade peered at me from inside the car. “Didn’t you take it with you?”

“Maybe you left it in the church,” Ericka said, lifting her baby higher in her arms.

“Shit. I’ll go look.” I slipped passed her. “Don’t go anywhere without me!”

“Hurry up, Dee!”

Well yeah, that was the plan. I took a shortcut; a straighter path that took me past Hedley’s grave. I wouldn’t have looked twice at the stone angel, or at the young man keeping silent vigil in front of it, at any of it – but suddenly, I heard a muted, dull sound, like water on soil.

The guy in front of Hedley’s grave kept his back turned, but that didn’t stop me from noting the steady stream of liquid pouring onto the ground.

From between his legs.

“Oh for Christ’s sake! What is wrong with you people?” Because really, what the hell? Feathered flashers, paparazzi and now public urination? “What, is this Desecrate a Grave Day?”

He turned, just a little. The first thing I noticed was his smile – tilted at a sly angle, not quite a smirk, but decidedly crooked. He was amused. At me. As if I were the freakshow here.

Then he turned all the way around. That’s when I saw the open beer bottle in his hand – and his still zipped pants. Oh. “Whoops.”

I could tell he was holding back a snort. “Yep.”

“I uh… may have over-reacted a bit.”

“You think?” His smile lingered. “So I take it you’ve never heard of pouring a little alcohol on a grave to pay your respects?” He cocked his head to the side and waited for my answer.

Why would I? “Nope,” I said instead.

“Really? People do it all over the world.” He shook the half-empty bottle in his hands. “In the Gold Coast, the Akan peoples spill it on the graves of their friends to help them transition into the spiritual world.”

He looked about Ade’s age, or barely a day over twenty, at the very most. Hard to believe Ralph Hedley qualified as a “friend” to someone of this guy’s age. And a peculiar guy at that. Well, this situation was already way too weird. Besides that jacket had cost fifty bucks.

“OK,” I said, eyes narrowed. “Well, bye.”

I didn’t even bother pretending I wasn’t exasperated. “What?”

“You want to try it?”

He held out the bottle, eyes sparkling with mischief. My face scrunched. “Sorry, I’m busy.”

“Suit yourself.” Just as he began turning from me, he stopped suddenly. It was as if some startling epiphany had just seized him by the neck. He started staring at me. Furrowed eyebrows, bright brown eyes under an unruly fringe of dark hair. Weirdly intense. Or maybe just weird.

“What did you say your name was?” His voice was nearly a breath when he asked me. He searched my eyes.

I frowned. “I didn’t.” And I wasn’t going to. “Like I said, I’m busy so–”

But I could only take about three steps before he grabbed my wrist. It was like a fire alarm went off in my head. The fight or flight in me started gathering up air for a scream as I shook. Strangest thing was, he looked earnest. Eager, but earnest. But then they always did before the stabbing started.

“W-wait,” he said, but I didn’t let him finish.

“Let me go!” I finally screamed and, after yanking my hand away, I punched him with it. It was a weak punch, but he stumbled back against the gravestone, shocked as he hit the ground. I half-expected he’d come at me again, but he just sat there. His cheeks were flushed, but not in anger. There was no bloodlust in his eyes, no hacksaw crazy. Just a timid sort of shame.

Shame. Maybe that was why I wasn’t running yet.

“Sorry,” he whispered, lying against the gravestone. “I really didn’t mean to scare you. I just… “ He glanced up at me again, fast and fleeting, before gathering himself and focusing instead on the fresh grave dirt beneath him. He patted it twice and stood, slowly. A solemn mask grayed his face, aging him suddenly. “See you around, Old Man,” he told the headstone.

With one graceful movement, he swept past me, taking a modest swig of whatever was left in his bottle. Ericka’s driver started to make liberal use of the car horn, but I could only stare – at the young man and his bottle of booze.

“Oh, and Deanna? You are Deanna, right?”

The young man stopped before he’d gotten too far. My heart had almost given out when he’d said my name, because it was right at that moment I’d finally realized who he was. Except it was impossible.