Born on the 4th of July

a birth on the 4th, but then again, if the baby was born on a different day, that would be a great day, too.
Kyle was a great husband. Her dad would have loved him.
She ran her hands over the grass, thinking the old cemetery really was beautiful, peaceful, filled with shade trees and graves that went from crooked slate with weather-worn memorials to modern stones, mausoleums, and above ground tombs.
She started suddenly. Crows let out loud caws and flit from one of the tall maple trees that graced the path. They were big, beautiful birds in flight.
“A murder of crows, Dad!” she said aloud. “How bizarre that we count a number of crows as a murder. A gaggle of geese and . . . a murder of crows!”
She shook her head. Language could be so strange!
She smiled at her father’s gravestone again.
“Kyle will be here soon,” she said aloud. “Dad, I so wish you could have known him! He’s so proud I want to name the baby after you. It’s a boy, and his name will be Cameron Alan Green. Well, you were Cameron Alan Adair, but you know what I mean!”
She could just imagine her dad in life. He’d have said, “If I knew what you meant, young lady, you needn’t be explaining it to me.”
She smiled at the memory and looked across the grass. At first, she thought Kyle was coming for her, or coming to the grave to pay his own respects before they both headed out. The sun was in her eyes, and she wondered why in heaven he would be wearing a big black coat—it was July! A beautiful day.
She smiled, thinking about the crows. He looked just like a crow, the black floating back like wings! He’d laugh, of course, when she told him what he’d made her think.
She glanced back to the grave.
“Okay, Dad, I never told you he was just a little bit crazy.”
When she looked up again, she realized it wasn’t Kyle.
But the person resembled a crow more than ever. Yes, people were wearing masks these days, caring for others. But this . . .
This man had a black face mask covering not just his mouth and nose, but his entire face and head. And he was wearing something strange especially for summer. It wasn’t a coat or jacket, but in truth was a cape, and the moving figure indeed resembled the movement of a crow in flight.
And still . . .
At first, she was just curious. She wasn’t alarmed.
And then she was.
Because one of the “winged” arms moved as he swooped down on her, shoving a cloth over her face. She screamed and wriggled; there had to be someone else in the cemetery.
The beautiful July day, green grass and blue sky, began to fade.
The last thing she saw was her father’s gravestone.
Cameron Alan Adair.
Cameron Alan . . .
She tried to gasp out words.
Cameron Alan . . . no. She couldn’t die. Her baby was due in just a few days. She wanted him so desperately, she’d dreamed . . .
A murder of crows . . .
And a giant crow had come for her, its sleek sweeping wings turning the world to black.
Her baby . . .
She would fight! She would fight!
But the blackness, the wings of the crow, wrapped around her.

Chapter 1
Angela Hawkins stood between her husband, Jackson Crow, and Adam Harrison, creator and Assistant Director of the Krewe.
She and Jackson came to the cemetery every year with Adam. They weren’t just coworkers; they were friends and were very close. Jackson had been Adam’s first choice to head up the special unit he managed to get the powers that be to set up as a part of—and apart from—the FBI.
Adam’s son was buried next to Adam’s parents and his wife; he also had a plot for himself in the little section with the large weeping angel monument that honored the family “Harrison.”
“I don’t know why we come here, Dad!”
She saw Adam smile.
Adam didn’t have the ability—gift or curse—to talk to the dead. Not generally. But he had recognized it in others when he had lost his only son Josh to a car accident when Josh had been in high school. He’d used friends and acquaintances across the country he’d believed to have been so gifted, and then made the Krewe an official “thing.”
A rich man, Adam had spent his life supporting life-saving charities, and he was friends with a great many people who could make things happen. While he still didn’t see others, somewhere along the line, his devotion to saving lives and his care for others had allowed him to see one ghost—that of his son.
Angela often wished she’d known Josh in life. The boy had possessed different qualities, sometimes knowing when things would happen. And he’d told Angela once, he had known long before the fatal night that had taken his life, he hadn’t been long for the world. He was funny, bright, and witty, and she imagined he would have grown into a fine man.
Adam turned to Josh.
“You know you’re not the only one buried here,” Adam reminded him. “I come to—to honor my parents as well. Your grandfather stormed the beaches at Normandy, and your grandmother was one of the first to hit the work force on the line for supplies for our troops.”
“I know! Sorry, Dad. It’s just that—well, they’re not here, you know.” He was quiet. “And I’m right beside you, Dad.”
Adam nodded and shrugged. Then he smiled and told Josh, “And I am so grateful,” he said softly. “But Jackson and Angela come with me, and they don’t even have anyone buried here. It’s just a way to honor those