In the hallway upstairs, I feel eyes on me as I leave and side-eye over my shoulder to the desk where Alver sits. He’s watching me closely but drops his gaze when he realizes I’ve caught him.

“Goodbye, Alver. I locked up downstairs so you can stay out of my morgue with that disgustingly filthy mind of yours,” I say, pulling a look of shocked horror. His jaw drops, mouth gaping, and that’s before he realizes that Tricia is sitting at her desk, listening intently to every word.

No telling what gossipy lies Alver told her, but at least I’ve planted the seed that it’s not me who’s the sicko, but Alver. I even add a little hint of a limp to my walk as I exit the building to really sell the story. Outside, I take a big breath and then laugh wildly, loudly and uninhibited, with zero cares about who might be watching me lose it.

Fuck, that felt good.

I have spent so long pussy-footing around, trying to help everyone else be comfortable and safe, that I have nearly bitten my tongue in half.

But no longer. I feel free.

Maybe not of the curse that haunts me, but at least of the gossip and glares having such a deep impact.

* * *

This is a bad idea. It’d seemed like a great one thirty minutes ago when I stomped—I mean, limped—out of my morgue and got in my car. And even on the drive here, I was sure I’m doing the right thing. Or at least doing something.

But now, sitting in the parking lot outside the office of Blake Hale, Insurance Specialist for Everlife, I’m having second thoughts. And third, fourth, and fifth ones too. It doesn’t help that his office looks nice, the two-story professional building wrapped in white stucco and green-tinged one-way glass, with a pretty copper archway over the main entrance and beautiful landscaping.

Looking up Blake’s work address hadn’t prepared me for this. And yes, I’m showing up to his office unannounced, something I would usually never do, but he’s done it twice now, so turnabout is fair play.

You want to see him in his element.

I do, curious about what a Blake Hale space looks like. Is it generic, full of abstract art that won’t offend and seats that don’t invite lingering?

Or deeply personal, with family photos and mementos?

Curiosity killed the cat, my conscience warns. Then I’m not the cat, he is, I answer myself, repeating the reminder that I shouldn’t get too close . . . for Blake’s protection.

My phone dings in the cupholder, and I pick it up, half praying for a DB that I’ll have to go handle so I can leave.

Nope, it’s Blake. I can see you sitting in the car. You coming in or what?