Dead and Dateless Read Online Free PDF Page A

did find a few floats, however, several lounge chairs and a mini fridge with two bottles of AB-positive leftover from my parents’ last party.
    The small clock on the fridge indicated that it was barely eleven o’clock. Eleven?
    Which meant I had an entire night and day to get through undetected.
    No problemo. I could do this. I would hunker down and regroup. Come nightfall tomorrow, I would head back to the city and get to the bottom of the whole accused-of-murder business. And I would tend to my own Dead End Dating. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to accomplish the last part (I couldn’t just waltz into the office), but I figured that something brilliant would strike while I slept.
    First things first. I stacked several lounge chairs in front of the door (it didn’t have a lock) and spent the next half hour blowing up four of the massive floats and adding to my mental list of things to do tomorrow evening, like contacting Evie. I wasn’t sure how, but I wasn’t worried (see the brilliant comment above). I drank half a bottle of gourmet blood (chilled, but beggars couldn’t be choosers) and changed into my favorite J Lo sweatsuit—pink with white stripes—and did my best not to feel sorry for myself. Stacking three of the floats on top of one another, I stretched out and pulled the fourth full on top of me to act as a blanket/shield just in case someone opened the door and caught me cry—
    I shook away the thought before I could even finish, closed my eyes and gave in to the tears—er, sleep.
    And that’s how I stayed for the next few hours until the police showed up.

I almost peed my pants when I heard the wail of the siren.
    Almost.
    Except that I’m—you guessed it—a vampere. While I have the same equipment as your average human, it doesn’t work exactly the same. Or, in this case, not at all ( mucho thanks to the Big Vamp Upstairs for that ).
    Plus, the sound only lasted for a few blaring seconds, and so the J Lo suit stayed in mint condition. I was left to wonder if my imagination had shifted into maximum overdrive. Loud, obnoxious siren? Or crazy, well-dressed, lunatic vampire?
    I went for number one (while I was well dressed, I wasn’t ready to check myself into Bellevue just yet) and crept to the door. My ears prickled and my nostrils flared and I tuned in to the world on the other side. The buzz of the crickets. The soft lapping of the pool water. The hum of the pump. The footsteps—
    Uh-oh.
    Man-made materials slapped up the walkway leading to my parents’ front door and my heart jumped into my throat. The noise paused and I heard the shuffling of feet and the clearing of throats.
    Breathe, I told myself. I sucked in air and tried to focus on the positive aspects of the situation. No guns were being drawn. No handcuffs were clacking. No one was whispering “You take the back” or “On my count” or whatever cops said in situations like this. There were no men surrounding the house or helicopters lingering overhead.
    I sucked more air and tried to calm my pounding heart.
    “I’m really sorry, chief.” The woman’s apologetic voice slid past the thunder of my heart and echoed in my ears. “I thought the siren was standard procedure.”
    “In the apprehension of a criminal, Morris.” The man’s voice was deeper, more smooth and controlled. “This is a courtesy call on two valuable members of our community.”
    “Whose daughter is a murderer.”
    “Alleged murderer.”
    “But what if she’s here?”
    “She’s not.”
    “But what if she is? That would mean they’re aiding and abetting, which makes them criminals themselves, which means this isn’t just a courtesy—”
    “There’s been a mistake.”
    “But how can you be so—”
    “She’s not here,” the deep, smooth voice cut in again. “Now shut up and leave it alone.”
    Leave. It. Alone.
    The words echoed so strong and sure and forceful and realization hit.
    Remy Tremaine aka the Fairfield police force’s