Chapter 6
Sleep hits me like a metal bat the moment I lay down in bed. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but when I open my eyes again, I’m confused to be greeted by the sun in my window, peering down at me like I’m actually expected to be awake before noon.
Being a night shift mortuary assistant works out for my weird ass nocturnal schedule that I’ve never been able to shake; so to see daylight this early is troubling. Clearly, the world has gone out of whack, and I’m going to end up in some bizarro version of Still Pines today.
Somehow, though, I’m awake enough that I push out of bed. But the events from the night before rush into my consciousness like rainwater down a drain as soon as I’m vertical.
Jenkins.
Andrew Elliot.
The bite.
The motion light—
Well, okay, the last was probably just an eerie coincidence that made everything seem creepier.
And triggered my first ghost in a few days.
Even now, I know I won’t see Andrew Elliot again, unless he comes back to my mortuary.
His face is already a little fuzzy in my mind; his eyes are colorless in my memory, and his hair is varying shades of brown whenever I try to remember.
I didn’t work on him long enough to get a good mental picture seared into my brain, strangely enough.
If anything, I would’ve guessed the opposite. That his face would’ve been caught in my mind after the strangeness of last night, instead of fading so quickly.
Checking my phone shows me I haven’t missed any calls or messages from Cecil. Which I take as a sign that nothing came from last night since I sent him a rapid-fire voice message to let him know what happened.
I just hope he isn’t upset with me.
A kind of anxiety I haven’t felt in years suddenly forms in my stomach like a stone, prompting me to stop and stare into the mirror, as if I’ve been caught and held by my own reflection.
My shoulder-length black hair is a mess this morning, and my grey eyes look more washed out than normal from how wan my complexion is.
The anxiety builds, becoming a boulder rather than a stone, and I sit on the edge of my bed, eyes still fixed on the mirror, as if I could somehow see the source of this unwelcome feeling.
“Please don’t be mad at me,” I whisper, the words strange and foreign on my tongue.
I haven’t used them in so long in that order, and it brings an even worse sense of dread than anything I’ve felt lately.
My fingers curl against my bare thighs, and to my eyes, my reflection changes, just a little.
The girl becomes softer and younger. Her eyes get bigger, filled with dread and the fear of what she knows will happen next time Mom gets upset.
The light from the window shifts, and I swear I can see the faint mottling of old bruises under my eyes, on my cheekbones, a split lip that—
I jolt to my feet before I vomit, and turn away from the mirror that’s causing me to spiral into a place I try not to go.
My head is spinning enough that I stumble and nearly bash my face into the bathroom doorframe, but getting into my morning ritual is enough to start pulling me out of the hole I unintentionally dug for myself.
Or rather, the one that was excavated in my mind years ago. Now it’s only covered by a disguise of leaves and branches, always waiting for me to step into it and fall to a very painful fate.
I’ve always been able to climb back out of that mental pit, sure. But it doesn’t make licking my wounds any more pleasant when it happens.
I almost don’t know what to do with myself now that I’m awake in normal people hours.
But I end up getting dressed, though I know I don’t exactly look like a functioning adult with a budget when I come out of my apartment in dark olive shorts covered with flowers and skulls, topped by an oversized black t-shirt reading I have rabies.
My shoes are the same scuffed-up Chucks I always wear, and my phone-wallet combo case sticks out, even after I jam it into my pocket.
Once I’m down the stairs, I swing into the coffee shop, hoping espresso will cure me of whatever this is, only to see that Hestia is not behind the counter where I expect her to be.
Instead, she’s sitting at her favorite table, close to the TV that sometimes plays music and other times actually has something on it.
Today, she’s got the news playing. Louder than normal, but given that it’s just her and a guy at her table inside, no one really seems to care.
Amir.
His name flickers instantly up in my memory, and with both of them facing away from me to watch the news, I have a moment to study him.
Like I noticed last time, his black hair is an even truer shade than mine, and today it’s up in a small ponytail with absolutely no bumps or flyaways.
It feels meticulous in a way that my hair never does.
Hell, I’m lucky if I get all of my hair up off my neck.
I’m never that worried about the particulars past that detail.
He turns slightly, as if knowing I’m behind them even if I haven’t said a word. But he doesn’t actually speak. Hell, part of me wonders if he knows I’m here at all, or if I just imagined the tiny tilt of his head like he’s watching me from the very corner of his vision.
“Shit, Nell!” Hestia yelps suddenly, nearly jumping out of her chair when she turns and sees me standing there. “What the fuck are you doing? Trying to haunt me like a ghost?”
That’s ironic, given my usual state of being, and I crack a soft, dry smile. “Yeah,” I say, voice flat. “I’m actually practicing. Haunting in the daylight hours instead of just at night feels creative, and I don’t want to be accused of being a boring dead person.”
Amir turns and gives me an unreadable look from his light brown eyes.
His head tilts again as he studies me, and finally he glances back at the screen.
“I hope we didn’t wake you somehow?” His smooth voice somehow makes him sound like he’s from a different time, a different era, hell, a monumentally different tax bracket.
“Yeah, I totally sensed a disturbance in the force and came down here. What are you two watching the news for?” My eyes flick up to the screen, and I try to figure out what’s going on despite being late to the party.
But when Andrew Elliot’s face pops up on the screen, my heart stutters in my chest.
“What was originally thought to be a suicide has been readdressed by the coroner as a possible homicide,” the newswoman goes on, as Andrew’s face shrinks to the corner of the screen.
In the picture, he looks a few years younger than he did at the morgue this morning.
Happy, almost, but with something in his gaze that would repel me in person.
But then again, didn’t Jenkins say no one really liked him?
“Though no further details have been released at this point, the Still Pines sheriff’s office assures us they don’t think there’s any danger to the community.
” That’s an interesting statement, in my opinion.
And from what I’ve seen of Sheriff Adele Miller, she’s slow to rule out anything that might hurt the people of her town.
I wonder if that’s just to prevent people from panicking or doing stupid shit. Or worse, from trying to find the possible killer. I can only imagine the amount of people in a small town who would be glad to rile each other up and start their own murder mystery club.
After all, what else is there to do around here?
“Maybe you’re bad luck, Amir,” Hestia snorts, getting to her feet with a light slap to the vinyl tabletop. “There’s literally never been a freaking murder in Still Pines. Then you come back and, bam! Andrew’s dead.”
Amir rolls his pretty, almost golden eyes up at her and rests his head on his palm, watching Hestia go back behind the counter.
“To be clear, it’s not like I bought a house here.
Or rented an apartment. I’ve been staying at my mother’s of Philly.
” His voice is dry, brittle, like the correction is important.
Like, for some reason, he wouldn’t want us thinking he’s slumming it here in such a small, old folks town.
Suddenly, I like him a little less.
As if sensing my touch of disdain, Amir looks at me again, appraising me. “I apologize, again, for the other night.” His voice is softer than the tone he used with Hestia, but it doesn’t soothe my ruffled feathers. “The dogs can be a lot.”
“I liked them. I usually prefer animals to people,” I admit.
“Their names are Noctis and Umbra, right?” Even though I ask, I know I’m right.
I may rarely remember human names, but animal names are much more easily burned into my memory.
“They’re German Shepherds?” That part I say a little less confidently.
I’m pretty sure that’s what they are, but I’ve never seen purebred Shepherds with coats like that or builds like theirs.
“Imported; that’s probably why you aren’t sure. But yes. They’re both from Eastern European working lines. I prefer it.” His voice stays light, though I swear I can hear just a touch of delight, as if I’ve found something he enjoys talking about.
“That’s really cool. They’re gorgeous.” It occurs to me I’m hovering, so I glance around, figuring that I should find somewhere better to be. Clearly, Hestia and Amir are friends who go back a ways. And I’m not trying to intrude on their time together.
“Come. Sit. Hestia said you work at the mortuary in town, yes? Kindred Pines? Tell me, does Cecil still run it with the ‘everyone is family’ motto?” A light in his eyes dancing as he asks.
Cecil and his father have always been famous for going the extra mile to treat everyone like family, even though it feels like he does too much most of the time.
But that’s just him, and I almost bristle in his defense before Amir raises his hands in surrender.