Do not fuck up my six-pack. Do you know how hard I had to work for that?

He does actually have six-pack abs, a narrow waist, and muscular legs that go on for days. All topped with golden blond hair, a proud nose, and full lips sandwiched between a manscaped moustache and beard. He looks like a model, like he could be one of those buff guys on a romance novel cover or GQ magazine.

Well, he could’ve . . . if he were still alive.

“Sorry, Chad ol’ buddy. But we need to know what happened. It’ll give your family some peace. Especially since you seem to be the picture of health.” I imagine he huffs in annoyance, only partially appeased by the compliment. But he quiets down, letting me get to work.

Inside, I chuckle a bit at my own stupid joke. The dead guy quieting down? Most people would think I’d truly lost it if I said that out loud, but my inner conversations are a side effect of long hours spent alone in a cold room as the county coroner.

It’s not a job I ever thought I’d have, to be honest, but it’s fitting in a way.

Drop-Dead Gorgeous.

The words from a few days ago come back to me. Sheriff Jeff isn’t the first and won’t be the last to call me that, but it still stings. Even if it serves my purpose to keep people away from my bad juju.

Shit, I’m not supposed to think about it. I look around for something wood to touch but only see metal instruments. And I don’t want to contaminate myself, either, so I cross my gloved fingers and send up a silent hope that everyone I know stays safe and healthy . . . and alive.

That last one is the most important one considering my history. I don’t just work with death all day. I’ve known it intimately over the years.

First, with my parents. They died in a car accident when I was thirteen, and I’d been taken in by my grandparents. A tragic start for sure, but that’s where things got interesting.

Grandpa had been the coroner for Williamson County for decades, and our dinner conversations were not the sort of light and fluffy things most people talk about over meatloaf. He ruined the CSI shows for me, complaining about inaccuracies and teaching me how it should’ve been done, whether I wanted to hear it or not. I can still hear his lame ‘dad jokes’ . . . Those procedures . . . could kill a man.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! And then Grandpa would drop his bifocals down his nose, mimicking David Caruso’s stone-cold stare.