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The rain didn’t fall in sheets; it misted, a miserable grey shroud that clung to the marble headstones of Oakridge Cemetery. As a veteran mortician, Arthur Vance had buried billionaires, politicians, and killers. He wasn't afraid of the dead. It was the living that made his spine prickle. But today, standing at the graveside of Julian Cross—a disgraced tech mogul who had allegedly died in a fiery car crash—Arthur felt a cold sweat breaking under his heavy wool coat. The service was small. Only three people attended. But it wasn't the sparse ...
Rengin never thought that her very own parents would ship her off to Camp Blood. Rengin practically begged her parents to send her to Camp Star. But her parents, obsessed with family tradition and "building character," insisted that a summer in the deep, untamed woods of the Pacific Northwest was exactly what she needed. Camp Star had solar-powered cabins, pottery classes, and a lake that didn't look like murky tea. Camp Blood—officially named Camp Algonquin-Bliss, though the locals and campers knew better—had moldy canvas tents, a severe la...
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