Becoming Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

go. Are you finished fantasizing over my brother?”
    “If I have to be.”
    I watched him, noticing a smile crossing his lips as he flipped the pancakes. “You always look so happy when you cook.”
    “It relaxes me. I need it after this week’s exams.”
    “How much would your dad freak if you became a chef instead of a doctor?” I asked, leaning against the counter.
    “Don’t joke about that in front of him. You’ll give him a heart attack. He’s doing double shifts at the hardware store just to pay for my tuition.” He shook the spatula at me.
    I held my hands up. “It was only an idea.”
    He raised an eyebrow at me. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go choose a movie. I’ll bring the food out to you when it’s ready.”
    I squeezed his shoulders before heading back into living room. I plopped myself in front of our DVD collection and looked for a suitable choice. I dismissed half of my movies as being not guy-friendly before setting on a zombie comedy. As much as I enjoyed the jokes, the gore and blood was a little much for me, but Aaron would like it.
    Aaron carried through two plates of pancakes and set them on the coffee table. “Did you find something?”
    I waved the DVD box at him for approval.
    “Perfect,” he said. “I’m relieved you didn’t take total advantage of the situation and force me into a chick flick coma.”
    “I still have time to change my mind…” I told him, sticking out my tongue as I loaded the DVD into the player.
    “And I could still eat both plates of pancakes.”
    “Mine,” I said, picking up my plate and cradling it against my chest as I joined him on the sofa.

Chapter 4
    Sundays meant one thing in the Clark family: brunches at my mother’s house. Every Sunday, my mother would gather my sister, my aunt, my grandmother and me into her dining room to try to out-do the previous week’s meal. My mother had toyed with the idea of being a chef when she was my age, but her love of numbers had won out. Every week, my family gathered as her guinea pigs to see what she had whipped up, knowing full well that the table would be filled with more food than most families ate at Thanksgiving and every one of us would be sent home with a stuffed container of leftovers to get us through the rest of the week. Not that I was complaining. After all, it was free food.
    With my car out of commission, my only form of transport to get across town was my pink kiddie bike complete with a tacky plastic flower basket mounted on the front. I spent most of the ride with my knees banging against the handlebars and dishing out sarcastic comments to ten-year-olds trying to make fun of me. I clutched my chest, trying to get my breath back as I parked my bike in the driveway of my parents’ house. I was three hours early but with good reason. I wanted to get the lowdown on my mother’s new man and also grill her about that mysterious trunk stashed in her living room.
    I knocked on the door and waited patiently for my mother to answer. After hearing no sounds inside, I decided there was no harm in letting myself in, so I dug my key out of my jeans pocket and opened the door myself, locking it behind me once inside.
    “Mom, you here?”
    My voiced echoed in the empty hallway so I stopped to listen intently. The empty house was cold and uninviting. My spine tingled as I wandered into the living room. I rubbed my palms over my bare arms. Once again, I was drawn to the sofa. My eyes locked on the immaculately clean cream piece of furniture and I instinctively lunged towards it. The trunk my mother wanted to remain a secret may have been disguised, but I knew I was meant to find it, to open it. As my fingers touched the leather, I paused. The whisper of my name seemed to echo in my ear.
    “Is someone there?” My eyes darted around the room, checking for an audience. “Mom? Clarissa?”
    I was met with only the sound of my own heavy breathing, so I reached down to remove the leather