Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margot
Jigsaw’s acceptance came easier than I anticipated. He’s still here. I half expected to wake up in an empty bed and get a “this call cannot go through…” message when I dialed his number.
And even though it clearly makes him uncomfortable, he lets me tell him a little about my job. Why does it feel so nice to talk about it with someone who isn’t a mortician and still have them understand?
My phone buzzes and I grab it off the counter. I release a sigh as I read the text.
“Your dad again?” Jigsaw asks.
“No.” I type out a quick reply, then open my notes app and the details of the text. “A client who wanted a slight change to her grandmother’s obituary. I need to make sure I do that before it gets sent to the paper. Her grandmother raised her and she’s having a really hard time.”
Jigsaw moves closer and eases his arms around me. “You can only take on so much grief. I know you’re good at your job, but the emotional side will suck you under if you let it.”
As much as I want to deny it and tell him to mind his own business, I know he’s right.
My phone buzzes again. “The accessibility and personal connection is why we’ve been in business for three generations.” I reach for my phone and read the text. “But it’s exhausting sometimes, too,” I admit.
Jigsaw stares at me for so long, fear swirls in my stomach. What’s going through his mind?
“Is this what you’ve always wanted to do?” he asks.
I open my mouth to say yes, of course. But the truth stops me. I’d wanted to be a cosmetologist—for the living. “Well, I wanted to do makeup—just not for the dead.” I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable talking about this. “But I feel like I get to help people more this way.”
“I know you do.” He curls his hands around mine. “Your clients are lucky to have someone as compassionate and kind as you are to help them through difficult times.” He hesitates and looks away for a second. “But what about the toll it takes on you?”
Suddenly, it feels like we’re talking about something else. “Do you mean I wouldn’t murder people if I chose a different career path?”
“No. That’s not what I meant.” He squeezes my hands. “You see a lot of bad things that vigilante justice can’t resolve.” He shakes his head. “Jesus Christ, you told me you have an entire month dedicated to funerals for teenagers because they’re all driving drunk after proms and graduations, for fuck’s sake.”
“Sometimes the one who caused the accident survives…but they don’t really fit my criteria.”
He blinks and stares at me.
“Although,” I continue, turning the idea over in my head. “A repeat offender…that might be a different story.”
“All right. Easy,” he growls. “I wasn’t trying to give you any ideas. I don’t want you risking your freedom more than necessary.”
Now that I’ve had the thought though, I can’t resist it.
No.
I always told myself I’d stick to one thing. Jigsaw’s right. I’m not a comic book anti-hero. I can’t punish everyone. Stay in my lane. Stick to my criteria, it hasn’t led me astray yet.
After breakfast, I have to run downstairs to set up the viewing room. Unease rolls through me as I step into my closet to get dressed. Jigsaw hovers outside the door, his keen gaze focused on me as I choose a somber black skirt, thin, dark red sweater, and black blazer.
“Guess you’re never setting foot in here again?” I ask.
A sharp scowl darkens his expression.
Great, now he thinks I’m insulting him. “I meant because of my ornaments , not that you don’t like enclosed spaces…” Damn, what’s wrong with me.
“No. You’ll have to give me a tour one day.” He wiggles his fingers toward the closet door. “Show me what’s in the weird, hidden little door space back there.”
Shocked, I let out a snort of disbelief. “You sure got a lot of snooping done in a short amount of time.”
“I wasn’t snooooping .” He draws out the word as if he’s offended. “I was curious. There’s a difference.” He zigzags his finger through the air. “The house design is wild.”
“Oh. That’s true. It’s nothing. Just like a little mini closet where I keep some…supplies and a few other…oddities.” And a collection of newspaper articles about all of my victims .
He nods slowly. “It wasn’t just the confined space. It was?—”
“Finding out your girlfriend’s a serial killer?”
“You’re not a serial killer,” he says in a much more patient tone than I think he’s feeling based on his lingering scowl. “You’re motivated by justice, not personal gratification.”
“That’s true. So what were you going to say?”
“The Bible quotes.” He shivers with disgust. “When I was little, after a beating, my father would read lengthy passages from the Bible to us. When I was older and he graduated to whippings, he nixed the biblical story time, so a bit of an improvement,” he finishes with a strained laugh.
The clothes in my hands flutter to the floor and I hurry to throw my arms around his middle. “I’m so sorry. I was just…you kind of surprised me. I didn’t expect…I mean, I wanted to tell you but?—”
He wraps his arms around me tight, cutting off my bumbling explanation/apology. “It’s okay. You didn’t know.” He pulls away, still keeping his hands on my shoulders. “You wanted to tell me what?”
I tilt my head toward the closet. “That. Not yesterday or today but, you know, eventually.”
“You trust me that much?”
He hasn’t given me a reason not to, yet. “Yes.”
His lips part as if he has something to say, but then he shakes his head and hugs me again.
Gretel bursts into the room, loudly announcing her arrival.
Laughing, I back away from our embrace. “I think she’s playing alarm clock for me. I need to get dressed.”
“Do you need help this morning?” he asks.
“No, you can hang out here.” I drop onto the bed and roll my stocking up my leg. Maybe he wants this chance to escape after everything he learned about me yesterday. “If you want to.”
Keeping his gaze focused on my hands as I work the thin black material over my knee, he leans over and scratches behind Gretel’s ears. “I don’t mind hanging out with G-kitty for a bit. But it sounds like you have a busy day.” He stands and flexes his biceps. “Let me get the grunt work done for you. Put these to use.” He pats his upper arm.
Laughing, I stand and shimmy into my skirt, tugging at the zipper in the back. Having him watch me get dressed is messing with my motor coordination. “I’d be silly to turn down that offer, wouldn’t I?” It would be a big help. My father and Paul are busy until later this morning.
He spins one finger in the air, urging me to turn around. I grab my sweater while he tugs at the skirt and slowly zips it into place.
“There.” He pats my behind. “I hope you understand how painful it is to watch you put clothes on , let alone help.”
“Well, I appreciate the assist. Having you watch me get dressed has made me forget how to use my hands.” I wiggle my fingers in front of his face, and he laughs.
Gretel scurries out of the bedroom as Jigsaw and I head toward the living room. I stop and slip into my sensible, black heels while Jigsaw laces up his boots.
I close the door behind us, double-checking that it’s locked.
“Can’t be too careful on days where we’ll have a lot of people wandering around,” I explain.
Jigsaw’s face pinches into a frown but he nods.
It’s dark and quiet downstairs. I flip on the hall lights, then wind my way into the parlor to turn on the lamps. I lead Jigsaw into the viewing room and show him the closet where we keep the wooden folding chairs stacked.
“I got this,” he says. “Go ahead and make your phone calls or whatever you need to do.”
“A few deliveries might come to the back door, but I’ll hear the bell.”
“I can get those too.” He sweeps one hand in front of him. “Everything’s going in here, right?”
I quickly flip through my mental list of items. “Um, except the food. That’ll go in the kitchen.”
“Got it.” He leans down and kisses my cheek.
We part ways at the door of my father’s office. I’m used to doing the morning prep work alone, with Paul, or one of the part-time attendants. For these smaller services, my dad only comes in to do a last-minute check these days. At least he trusts me with this much. I’m not sure what he’ll think about Jigsaw helping me.
I’m almost through with my list when the front doorbell chimes, cutting through the muffled silence and occasional thump of chairs being moved around.
I flick my gaze to the small black-and-white video monitor that shows the front porch. Two men in suits are waiting by the front door. Family members arriving early to check on things? That’s always possible.
I hurry down the long corridor, my heels thudding over the hardwood.
“Want me to get it?” Jigsaw asks.
I smooth my hands over my skirt. “No, I’ve got it.”
He retreats into the viewing room to where he can still watch the front door.
My own personal bodyguard.
Laughing to myself, I twist the knob and pull the heavy door open.
“Good morning.” The young, slender man runs his gaze over me. Not in a leering manner, more like he finds me lacking in some way. “Margot Cedarwood?” His deep voice sends an ominous shiver through me for a reason I can’t name.
“Yes. Are you here for the Lewis celebration?”
“No.” He pulls a black leather wallet out of his breast pocket, flips it open and holds it out to me to inspect the badge inside. “Dan Wood with the Slater County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions, Ms. Cedarwood.”