Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
She’d driven from her folks’ house to Minot hundreds of times. But always as Amara Morrigan. Never as . . . whatever the hell she was now. And never with the delightful Graham Gray beside her. So the ride was simultaneously too long and not long enough.
Amara pulled into the lot with great care, checking blind spots no one in the world knew existed, and finally parked in the Trinity Homes lot.
Then she sat and sat and sat.
“Are you hoping whoever it is will die of old age instead of a heart attack so you don’t have to take care of him right this minute?”
Amara said nothing. Amara said nothing. Amara said—
“Hon? You okay? Relatively speaking?”
“I know this one.” She could see the sweaty marks from her fingers on the curly printout. “She was my middle school music teacher.”
“Oh. Does that make it easier or harder? I guess it depends on who it is. Or how you feel about music. Given that you listen to way too much nineties pop garbage, I’m not optimistic.”
“I will not hear one word against Ace of Base or En Vogue,” she said absently.
Gray reached over and gently pried open her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe that’ll be a comfort for her. An old student. Someone she knows.”
“I was a crap singer. So, no.”
Gray let out a snort and then clapped his hand over his mouth. He rolled his eyes to look at her and let out another muffled snort.
She had to smile. She’d never adored anyone more, or been more infuriated by anyone, come to think of it.
Well, La Croix was a contender for that last one.
And she’d never suffered from inappropriate laughter with that guy the way she did with Gray.
“Come on, you ridiculous dope. Let’s get it over with. ”
* * *
The grounds were lovely, even at this time of year: lots of trees and flower beds, wide paths and even a fountain. In a month, residents would look out at a riot of color.
The inside was nice, too; once they were through the double doors, they could see it was closer to a fancy apartment complex or a high-end hotel than what people thought when they imagined a state-run nursing home.
Gray slowed and stopped at the registration desk, then hurried after Amara when she didn’t. “Don’t we need visitor badges or something?” he stage-whispered.
“When you do that, everyone can hear you.”
“Sorry. My first time.”
“Everyone heard that, too. Lesson the first: Death Lite can get in anywhere.”
“Okay, let’s nip that in the bud right now. That’s not a nickname you want. Try to picture it on a T-shirt. See? Terrible.”
Amara made no reply as she neared the residence rooms, just swerved, seized a small plastic trash can outside the women’s restroom, and dry heaved.
“Oh my God. You never throw up. I’ve never seen you throw up. And you chased vermouth with chocolate milk that one time.”
“I’m not throwing up now, either. Hurrrrggggnnn!” Dry heaves: all the unpleasantness and exhaustion of vomiting, none of the release.
“Let’s head back to the car.” Gray displayed his essential fearlessness by putting an arm around her heaving shoulders, ignoring her long, rattling belch. “Give you a minute. Come back, hit the nurse’s station for some ginger ale and crackers—”
“It’s not a cafeteria, Gray.”
“—and we’ll try again.”
“No point. To anything, really.” Amara tucked the trash can close to her side like a football, shrugged off Gray’s comforting arm, then rapped gently on the door to Room 196. In response to, “Jesus, finally,” they entered.
The room was about the size of a hotel single, with white walls and mint accents.
Amara pushed past the discreet curtain, noting where the en suite bathroom was in case her frazzled system wanted to offer up something more substantial than dry heaves.
There was a couch at the foot of the bed, but it looked like it had been assembled from cinderblocks, right down to the squares and gray fabric. Amara gave it a wide berth.
There was a mountain in the bed swathed in crisp white sheets: Agatha Lindstrom, DOB 2/14/1975, DOD today. Class III obesity, type 2 diabetes, hypertension. Cause of death: myocardial infarction.
Amara cleared her throat. “Hi, Ms. Lindstrom. You might not remember me, but—”
“Amara Morrigan. You sang like a cat set on fire.”
“Yes, but when I started in your class, you said I sang like a rabid cat on fire. So, improvement?”
“I’ll take my small victories where I can find ’em.” Ms. Lindstrom’s clear gaze shifted to Gray. “Who’s the stud?”
“You can see him? Never mind, he’s my stud,” Amara snapped, then recovered herself. “I mean, this is my friend, Graham Gray.”
“Hi! I have no official role here, ma’am.”
“I was . . . expecting your father. The jumped-up redhead with the crazy eyes.”
Amara spread her hands in the universal gesture for, Yeah, but what can you do? “He’s . . . indisposed. I’m, um, filling in.”
Ms. Lindstrom let out a wheezy chuckle. “Listen to us and our fuckin’ euphemisms. It’s time, isn’t it? You’re getting me out of this shithole.”
“It seems like a nice enough—”
“You’re here to kill me.”
Stung, Amara replied, “I think maybe your diet and accompanying lifestyle killed you.”
Lindstrom flapped a chubby hand in Amara’s direction. The fingers were so swollen, the rings had long been cut off. “Don’t you judge me, you rotten brat. I don’t haveta take shit from Death’s still wet-behind-the-ears kid.”
Amara could almost read Gray’s mind: This woman was a teacher? Amara was pretty sure Agatha was like this because she’d been a teacher.
“I appreciate you making this easier on me,” Amara deadpanned, and got another chuckle.
“Remember when you ‘accidentally’ burned all the sheet music for ‘High School Confidential’?”
“Jerry Lee Lewis raped and married his thirteen-year-old cousin. And possibly killed his fifth wife.”
“Still a bangin’ song, though.”
“Oh my God.”
“Look here, brat: If you don’t wanna listen to problematic—”
“Problematic?” Wait. Was this the way it was supposed to go? Did people argue with her father? Did they talk about problematic pop stars with Death?
Seemed unlikely.
“—music, you better go through your playlists with a fine fuckin’ comb. Betcha half the assholes in your phone did somethin’ terrible. Ozzy Osbourne? Tried to kill his wife. Jim Morrison? Indecent exposure. Axl Rose? Assault. Elvis? Where do I fuckin’ start? James Brown? Same problem.”
Amara rubbed her temples. “We’re getting off course.”
“Naw. I was pissed when you set all that stuff on fire, but I always admired your guts. S’why I’m glad to see you now. I did my fuckin’ job for thirty-eight years. Now you do yours.”