You’ll Be the Death of Me

Prologue

Verdella Rodgers was blessed with an old lady’s name. Some might have called it elegant. Classy. Refined, perhaps. A callback

to a glamorous age when women wore furs and smoked cigarettes from slender stems between their bejeweled fingers. Except Verdella’s

parents had bestowed her the name in the age of Ashleys and Jessicas and Megans, leaving her elegant, refined old-lady name

ripe for ridicule. She’d shed it along with the remaining dregs of puberty for the cooler, sleeker Dell in high school, a name much more suited for her plucky personality, her drive and determination. Anyone who knew her knew

Dell was a go-getter, a doer, an unrivaled success story. The single-syllable label that started with a punch and ended with

a soft tongue curl had followed her through life like a perfectly tailored suit.

Still, the name Verdella Rodgers remained written on all her legal documents. Her driver’s license, her bank accounts, her

house’s deed. On paper, she was an old woman in a pilly cardigan with five cats and an affinity for Wheel of Fortune.

That was why Cole Lewis, recently minted transition specialist at the Afterlife Administration, could have been forgiven for his mix-up.

When it came time to transition Verdella Rodgers from this life to the next, he did not realize he’d selected Verdella Rodgers,

thirty-three, of San Francisco, California, and not Verdella Rodgers, ninety-five, of Wichita, Kansas, from his list. Had

he looked closer, he would have noticed the former was a young brunette in the prime of her life making waves in the Bay Area

food scene with her new restaurant and mere days away from marrying the mayor’s son, and the latter was a retired teacher

and beloved great-grandmother who’d lived a long, fulfilling life and was ready for rest.

Bleary-eyed in the office’s fluorescent light and still adjusting to his new position he was arguably unqualified for, Cole

did not notice the mistake until it was too late. Until he’d hit Transition on the wrong Verdella Rodgers, and his monitor

pulled up the profile image of a stunning young woman and not that of an elderly one.

His heart, which no longer beat but still registered sensation in his chest, sunk hard enough to make him feel faint.

When he realized he’d just done the undoable and ended the life of the wrong person, all he could say was “Oh.”

And then: “Shit.”

In a panic—one of his two default states, the other being law-abiding, rule-following upstanding citizen, a fact that currently

had him further panicking—Cole left his cubicle and hurried to his supervisor’s office.

The department where he worked resembled what one might picture if asked to imagine corporate hell: sterile gray walls, dull carpet, no windows. A break room that smelled like microwaved fish and an elevator that frequently

got stuck between floors. (He’d been assured time and again he was not, in fact, in hell but rather a waiting area while his case was processed. The state of the department was simply due to understaffing

and budget cuts.)

He arrived at his supervisor’s door and knocked.

Beatrice Gimble, Supervisor, Department of Accidental Deaths read the plaque beside the plain brown door.

“Yes?” a throaty voice called from inside.

“Ms. Gimble, I need to speak with you urgently,” he said to the closed door. He wanted to shove it open and demand to be heard,

but his rule-following instinct, like a rod holding his spine straight, wouldn’t let him.

A pause passed. It made him fidget. He glanced down at his oxfords and noticed his socks didn’t match where they peeked out

from his cuffed pants. He was getting sloppier in death.

“Come in,” Beatrice finally said, snapping him back to the moment.

Cole opened her door to a swirl of the musky floral perfume Beatrice favored. She reminded him of a stern librarian with her

cat-eye glasses, sharp bob haircut, and truly hideous sweater collection. She was wearing a bright yellow sweater with big

green flowers, which made Cole think of insects squashed on a windshield.

“Hello,” he said, still in a panic. He’d visited her office only a few times before: for his performance reviews and when

he’d accepted his position as a transition specialist. She was always pushing him to show more initiative and confidence—something

he found challenging given his under-qualification for his job.

“Mr. Lewis, how can I help you?” Beatrice asked. She narrowed her eyes over her glasses as if she were X-raying him. For all Cole knew, she was.

The Afterlife Administration was made up of people like Beatrice: executives, supervisors, administrators, and employees who’d

always been there and weren’t exactly human—and people like him: humans who’d arrived after their death on earth.

And then there was an even smaller category of people, like Cole, who’d arrived in the Department of Accidental Deaths—DAD—because

something had gone wrong on earth, and it was up to the department to investigate and file an official report before they

were allowed to pass on, leaving them in an indeterminate limbo.

Cole had died, what, about a year ago now? He’d honestly lost track. That was the thing about the DAD: The longer you waited

for your case to be investigated, the less you remembered your life on earth.

Surely, his mistake had just sentenced someone—this poor, too-young-to-die Verdella Rodgers—to a torturous wait in the DAD,

and he needed to reverse it.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he told Beatrice. “A terrible one.”

Beatrice, in no hurry despite Cole’s state, continued to gaze at him over her glasses. “Go on,” she said with the speed of

a lazy cat stretching in the sun. Cole had quickly learned folks with endless time on their hands tended to discount urgency.

He nervously bit his lip, afraid of how she might react. But it was better to be out with it than dance around excuses. “I

transitioned the wrong person,” he confessed. “I confused her name with someone else’s. I need to undo it. Please.”

Beatrice stared at his worried face without much expression.

Where someone a little less numbed to the constant and inevitable passing of lives from one stage to the next might have gasped or otherwise expressed dismay, she simply blinked at him and sighed.

“Pity. We were doing so well this month.” She rose from her desk chair and walked to the wall where a small whiteboard hung, stating 18 days since last incident.

With a squeak of her hand against the board, she erased the eighteen and used a pen to fill in a zero.

Cole winced. “Please. You have to let me undo it.”

Beatrice recapped the pen she’d used and sunk back into her chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis. Mistakes here can’t be undone.”

He was sweating with nerves, despite being dead. That poor woman. He couldn’t bear the thought of having accidentally ended

her life. “Yes. I know. But perhaps you could make an exception?” He gave her a charming smile. At least he thought it was

charming. Had he been a charming man on earth? Based on the way Beatrice seemed to soften, he liked to think maybe he had

been.

Beatrice scrutinized him with another narrowed gaze and then let out a sigh. “Listen, I like you. And I appreciate you showing

a little of that backbone I’ve been trying to foster by coming to me to confess. Normally I’d say no to this, but we need

to keep our numbers up, and you are a solid employee for the most part.”

That’s generous, Cole thought. He hated his job. He’d taken it only to pass the time in the DAD while he waited to move on to whatever came

next. But if she was going to give him a chance to fix his mistake, he’d let her shower him with whatever praise she wanted,

deserved or not.

“Name?” Beatrice asked. She turned to her computer screen and clicked a mouse.

“Um . . . Verdella Rodgers,” he said, thrown she was willing to help. “The young one,” he clarified.

“Obviously,” Beatrice muttered. Cole watched her eyes dart back and forth as she scanned her screen. He had to assume she

was reading Ms. Rodgers’s file.

“Hmm,” she hummed, and Cole held his nonexistent breath, hoping whatever she was deciding would land in his favor.

“What?” he asked.

Beatrice squinted at her screen. “Interesting case. Verdella Rodgers—the young one—is the chef de cuisine at her own restaurant;

member of a powerful, prominent family; a philanthropist.”

Cole winced at each descriptor, feeling like every good thing about her was more salt on a wound. Why couldn’t he have accidentally

offed some immoral narcissist who had it coming?

“Oh. Well, that’s interesting,” Beatrice said.

“What is?” Cole asked, and leaned forward to see. He knew supervisors had access to more information than transition specialists

did. He really only knew the woman’s name, location, and occupation.

Beatrice cut him off with a glare and angled her screen away.

He recoiled in shame.

She went back to reading the file, and Cole thought he might faint from anticipation. “Huh. Now that’s very interesting . . .” she nearly purred, clearly enjoying torturing him.

Instead of asking “What?” again, he counted the pens lined on her desk. Thirteen. Who needed thirteen pens?

Beatrice tapped her nails on her desk and looked up at him with a mischievous smile.

“I think we have an opportunity here. I’d like to see your problem-solving skills in action, so I am going to give you a chance.

This woman was a good person but took a wrong turn.

This is against protocol, but I’ll give you three days on earth to set her on the right path, and we’ll forgive this little mistake of yours.

It’ll be like it never happened. Succeed, and I might even put you in

line for a promotion.”

“Yes,” he said without even thinking. What a relief. “I’ll do it.”

“Great,” Beatrice said, and typed something on her keyboard. “I’ll put a pause on her transition for now, but you’ll find

her in an in-between state, like yourself.”

“You mean as a—?”

“Ghost? Yes. Now, let me just give you clearance here, and you can be on your way.”

“Wait, right now?” he balked.

“You said it was urgent,” she said with a feline smile.

“I did. Yes,” he said, flustered, and not sure he was ready to return to earth.

“Good. You’ve got an uphill battle in front of you, Mr. Lewis. She’s a good person, but she’s type A, ultracompetitive, and

downright stubborn. Getting her to turn things around will be good practice in assertiveness for you.”

Cole nervously gulped. Type As were his worst nightmare. Well, perhaps other than being stuck in a corporate void for all

eternity with only the fading memory of his life and the knowledge he was responsible for someone’s untimely death. That was

pretty bad. But dealing with a type A person—especially if he had to get her to see the err in her ways—sounded pretty bad

too. He was the polar and alphabetical opposite of type A. More like type Q. As in quiet. Go with the flow. Follow all the rules and don’t make waves.

But that poor woman. She didn’t deserve it. He had to go. He had no choice.

“Oh . . . and, Mr. Lewis?” Beatrice said as she yanked open a low desk drawer. “Take this with you.” She unearthed an ancient-looking leather-bound book and thrust it at him.

“What is it?” he asked as he took the slim but dense tome.

“The rule book.”

“Rule book?”

“Yes. It’s a guide to what you, a deceased, can and can’t do on earth. Follow those rules, Mr. Lewis.” She went full stern librarian on him and wagged her finger as she spoke, emphasizing each word. “I am already

going out on a limb for you here. Breaking those rules will have dire consequences—for both of us.”

“Got it,” he said with a nod and felt a surge of confidence mingle with his still thrumming nerves.

If there was one thing Cole Lewis knew how to do it was follow rules.

“Great. See you in three days, if not sooner,” Beatrice said, and tapped her keyboard again.

“Thank you for doing this,” Cole said. He braced himself to be sent to earth. He hadn’t gone back since he’d died, and imagined

it would involve the same tingly-all-over sensation and maybe some bright lights.

“Oh! One more thing,” he blurted. “How will I know what the right path for her is?”

Beatrice cast him another beguiling grin. “You’ll know.”

Then she stroked her keyboard one last time, and Cole disappeared in a flash of light.