He might as well be sneering ‘I’m not in your morgue’ like a toddler ‘not touching’ their sibling even though their finger is mere millimeters from contact. Instead, Alver’s face scrunches up and he pinches his nose. “Ugh! What’s that smell? Is that trash?”

I sniff the air, not smelling anything. I’m used to all sorts of smells in my line of work, but trash is different from decomposition so you’d think I could smell that.

But nope . . . nothing. Alver’s probably just being dramatic again.

“I’m working. Can I help you with something?” It’s a clear dismissal, and I think, a solid attempt at avoiding answering his questions.

“Drop-Dead Gorgeous, you are a sick, strange one. I’m getting Sheriff Barnes.”

He turns and runs, or as close as he can get to running, though it’s more of a skedaddle than anything, toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder as though he expects me to chase him.

Newsflash, this isn’t a horror movie where the cheerleader ends up being the serial killer that lured everyone to the old, abandoned building. Not that I was ever a cheerleader, or that the morgue is abandoned. Oh, and I’m definitely not a serial killer, no matter how much Alver gets on my last nerve. How did I ever think he was a friend?

I can see now that those offers of dinner were probably his way of being nosy and getting fodder for the gossip grapevine. No telling how many rumors I’ve been subjected to that started on his forked tongue. I roll my eyes in annoyance and call out, “Ask him to bring me a coffee, black as my soul,” I say in a deep, hollow voice and then add an evil, maniacal laugh. “Mwah-ha-ha.”

Is it wrong? Yeah.

Is it funny? Absolutely.

And hell, maybe it will get me a fresh coffee if Jeff’s feeling generous. I planned to call him before the end of the day anyway to share what I found, so this saves me the trouble.

Thanks, Alver! I think with saccharin sweetness and a pleased-with-myself smile. If he’d seen that, he definitely would’ve shat himself.

Oddly, that doesn’t make me feel bad like it once did. I am starting to realize that maybe Holly’s been right all along. People who have problems with me . . . they’re the problems.

It’s not me, it never was me.

I move the most recent piece of paper that’s driving me crazy around a few more times, turning it clockwise over and over, even flipping it to the other side. It’s solid white, after all. There could be any number of places it’d go in this invoice puzzle.

There!

I get it slipped into place and pick up another one. I’m so close I can smell it! Victory, not trash. Still don’t smell that.