I get up and shower, pulling on work scrubs and smoothing my hair back into its usual bun, making sure the baby hairs aren’t sticking up like crazy. Next, I brew a pot of coffee, leaving half for Jacob so that he can caffeinate when he gets up for school. He had a late class last night and an early class this morning—his not-favorite combination.

But hopefully, he’ll learn from his mistake and register for classes sooner next semester so he can get a better schedule and not have to take the leftover openings. A pseudo-guardian can dream.

Getting to the funeral home, I let myself into the back door, knowing my way around from experience. A few times I’ve helped Holly with transport, just to be nice and to get her out of my morgue.

Opening the door to the prep room, I find Holly wearing a large, clear plastic apron and black gloves. It’s not that different from what I wear for an autopsy, except her stuff is washable instead of disposable.

Who I assume to be Mrs. Cochran is on the table in front of her with curls half-done and ready to be teased into a hairstyle based on the picture propped up on Holly’s table.

“Hey, girl,” Holly says, not even looking up from her work.

“Hi,” I tell Holly. “Hello, Mrs. Cochran,” I tell the body. “Sorry to hear about . . . well, you know, your dying and all.”

No worries, dear. I had a good, long life. Could you tell this one to make sure my lipstick isn’t too red? She said something about making me look lively and I’m afraid that’s code for ‘harlot’.

I smile to myself and ask Holly, “What’re you planning for the makeup?”

Holly tilts her head, looking from Mrs. Cochran’s pale face to the picture. “Probably a rosy pink.”

“That’d look nice,” I agree, thankful I don’t have to share my imaginary conversation about too-red lips.

“So . . .” Holly prompts. Guess small talk’s over.

“Yeah, I told you, I saw Blake again last night.” I plop onto Holly’s stool, putting my feet on the bar around the bottom and resting my forearms on her work table. There’s nothing sterile, just makeup, hairspray, and dry shampoo, which I pick up to stare at as if it’s some new genius invention, not something I own three cans of myself. “Wait, did I tell you I saw him before too?”

Holly releases a long, slow breath of ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch’ and sets her teasing brush down. “You did not. Start at the beginning and catch me all up . . . from when I forced you to go for drinks with this guy and Bubba fucked everything up.”