“Tick-tock,” the cameraman adds quietly.
Amy narrows her eyes, shutting him up. “Quit wasting time.” She makes it sound like I fucked up on purpose, but it was an honest mistake.
I do the lines again, this time smiling at the close like I’m supposed to.
“That’s a wrap,” Amy says. “Guess we’ll see you on Sunday?”
“You know it.”
I’m almost clear, ready to call another Uber when Amy tells me, “Get in the car.” She points at her white sedan.
“No, thanks. I’m good.” I don’t risk explaining that a thirty-minute drive back to town where I’m a captive audience for her interrogation is against the Geneva Convention’s guidelines on cruel and unusual punishment.
“You really okay, Frosted Blakes? From the accident?” Worry mars her forehead, concern filling her eyes.
I nod, smiling easily to reassure her. “Yeah. I’m good. Just gotta deal with the insurance stuff. Those guys are so fucking annoying.”
Luckily, her answering laugh means I’m off the hook and is enough to get me through a ride home and into my soaker tub. I don’t realize how sore I am until the hot water starts to soak into my bones.
But as I relax, there’s one part getting harder as I think of Zoey Walker.
* * *
“What do you mean, I’ll have to wait for the paperwork to process before I can fix my car? That’s not how this works.”
The lady on the phone sounds bored and couldn’t possibly care less. “Sorry. Paperwork . . . process . . . blah-blah-blah.”
She might be a woman, but she’s trying to mansplain my own industry to me. I’ve been in insurance for over ten years, and though my focus is life insurance, I’m well-versed on auto insurance too. Package deals and all that shit.
“Fine. I’ll make sure you get the paperwork today.”
She laughs, a small little chuckle of ‘sure, you will, good luck with that’, and I press the End button on my phone a little too hard. I miss the days of being able to slam a phone down, that last bastion of ‘fuck you’ to end a wayward call and show the person on the other end of the line exactly what you think of their paperwork nonsense.
Someone should make an app for that.
A few clicks later, I have what I need, the address of the coroner’s office in Williamson County. Zoey Walker, while she might be a good driver—snort!—is shit for filing paperwork in a timely manner, and I’m going to call her on it.
In person.
Chapter 4
Zoey
No effin’ way. You’re not going to do it.
“Uh, yeah, I am. It’s literally my job,” I tell the body on the table. He’s not going to talk back. They never do. Sort of expected that way.
Well, there was that one time I had an old lady wake up on a side table and grumpily ask for a blanket before her ‘tits freeze off . . . again.’ I’d nearly jumped out of my skin and had been so shocked that I hadn’t even asked how her tits had frozen off the first time.
To be clear, I hadn’t been the one to declare her dead and bring her still-alive body to the morgue. But the doctor who did? By the time I got done with him, that nursing home quack was only able to find a job giving flu jabs in the middle of Siberia. Or somewhere where he couldn’t cause any harm.
Oh, sure, ‘she looked pretty passed,’ he’d argued. And yeah, she looked like she was a stiff breeze from coming back to the morgue even as they wheeled her into the nursing home transport van. It was a full-blown Weekend at Bernie’s situation, except she was mumbling about impatient nurses wanting to steal her pussy while staring blankly into space. The nursing home staff had patted her on the arm, reassuring her and explaining to me with a long-suffering sigh that ‘no one wants your porcelain cat figurine, Mrs. Jones.’
Still, Dr. Dumbass had to deal with a very pissed off county coroner. Or I guess I’d had to deal with him.
I shudder, returning my attention to the definitely dead man in front of me. I poke him in the shoulder with my gloved hand. Just to be sure, you know.
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.
In hindsight, I know he was trying to help me, but it was rough going for a while when I wanted to pretend Mom and Dad were just on a long trip and Grandpa had continually talked about death. But by the time I was sixteen and old enough to get a job, I was helping Grandpa out.
Nothing with direct contact, of course. He’d drilled the procedural rules into my head long before. But I’d drive him around, hand him instruments, and discuss his findings.
When he passed, I’d already gone to school, gotten a forensic science degree, and had been Grandpa’s right-hand worker for years. I was the obvious person to take over his role. My appointment as coroner had been uncontested, and I think as long I stay down here in my hidey-hole like a recluse, the county commissioner can just pretend I don’t exist.
That works both ways as far as I’m concerned. The county commissioner’s an idiot who treats budget increases for my office like I’m asking him to lie down on my table for a visit or two. So I ignore him and make sure my paperwork’s clean.
But I’m going to need some help sooner rather than later. This isn’t Grandpa’s day. The county’s twice as large now. That’s more stiffs than even a porn star could handle.
I pick up my scalpel and silently tell Chad ‘sorry’ once more. I’ve got the blade a scant millimeter from his skin when I hear a faint voice groaning, “Help me.”
I freeze, my eyes ticking up to Chad’s chest to look for any sign of movement. I point the scalpel at him and scold, “Don’t you dare, Chad. You are not nearly as entertaining as Mrs. Jones. And once was
more than enough of that.”
But Chad’s still. Of course he is, because he’s dead. For real dead, not just with a soft, slow heartbeat that a nursing home doctor didn’t take the time to listen for.
Deciding I imagined things, I press the scalpel to Chad’s abdomen.
“Help meeeeeee . . .” a disembodied voice moans in a loud whisper. There’s no mistaking it or pretending I imagined that.
I look around the room, my heart skipping beats like an off-tempo drummer.
There are no shadowy corners to hide in because I’m not a stupid horror movie chick. The only people here are me and definitely-dead Chad. Even so, a shiver of fear runs down my spine, leaving tingly nerves in its wake.
“Hello?” I call out, holding the scalpel like it’s a weapon now instead of an instrument I’ve used dozens of times. “Is anyone here?”
Suddenly, an ice-cold hand grabs my ankle, sending me off balance. I scream, kick out, and slash at the black shadow crawling out from under the table with the scalpel all at the same time.
My foot makes contact, and the shadow lets out an unmistakably human ‘oof’. “Shit, Zoey. I think you broke a damn rib.”
I drop the scalpel to the table with a clatter and kick the not-shadow, but a black hoodie-wearing teenage boy. “Jacob! You scared the piss out of me! I could’ve hurt you! I could’ve fallen and gotten hurt!” I’m yelling loud enough to wake the dead, scowling murder, and threatening him with my foot again. “You’re lucky I didn’t slice your carotid or something!”
In response to my potential violence and his own potential death, Jacob is rolling on the floor, laughing his ass off. And people say I’m macabre. But my brother-slash-ward-slash-I’m not sure what to call him is just as dark in his own way, and maybe even weirder.
“Holy fuck, Zoey. You should’ve seen your face.” He mimes the apparent terror I felt a moment ago, his eyes wide and mouth stretched horrifically, seemingly unaware that my adrenaline has quickly morphed to anger. “I got you so damn good!” He licks his finger and then adds a tally mark to an invisible score board. “Winner . . . your boy, Jacob! And the crowd goes wild! Ahhhhh!”
“That’s it. Consider yourself evicted,” I warn. “Get. The. Fuck. Out!”
He isn’t cowed in the least, simply yawning dramatically with one hand covering his mouth and one arm stretching out wide, still lying on the floor. “You wouldn’t dare. You love me too much.”
I pout, arms crossing over my stomach as I glare at him. I hate that he’s right. I would never kick him out. Not after everything he’s been through. Everything we’ve been through.
Jacob is my brother from another mother . . . and father. Well, technically, not my brother at all, but he sorta is. After I went to live with Grandma and Grandpa, they discovered that they liked having some young life in the house again. When a neighbor mentioned a kid who needed a foster home, Grandpa opened up his home to Jacob before the state could swallow him into their impersonal system.
Back then, I hadn’t known how to push people away. My walls weren’t up and fortified like they are now, and Jacob had snuck right into my heart. Which honestly terrifies me even more than his pranks and antics. Because though he’s not blood, Grandma and Grandpa adopted him, which technically makes him my uncle. But after their death, I’d become his guardian, which makes him my son.
And twisted family tree aside, in truth, he’s my brother. Always has been, always will be.
So I give in and soften my glare by degrees.
He rises up, unfolding himself from the floor with at least an apologetic look on his face. He’s tall and lean, a leftover of his youth of neglect even after years of good food and care. About the only thing we have in common is our blue eyes—not the color, though they’re the same, but the ghosts that lurk there. Where I’ve dealt with mine by becoming sarcastic and keeping people at arm’s length for their own good, Jacob has coped by becoming the life of every party.
He’s the quintessential outgoing, playful, fun-loving guy whom everyone flocks to. He’s the rebel with a ‘fuck the world’ grin on his face, and everyone loves him for it.
“I didn’t mean to scare you that badly. But shit, you really got me good.” He rubs at his rib. Only . . .
“I kicked you on the other side, asshole.”
He grins that smile that’s gotten him into and out of more trouble than it should’ve as he switches his hand to the other side. “Yeah, I know. Just checking them all. You got some donkey behind that kick. Hee-haw!”
I can’t help but smile at him and he knows it. “What are you doing here, anyway?” My eyes tick to the clock on the wall behind him and then back to Jacob. “Don’t you have class in an hour?”
“Yes, Mom,” he intones flatly, fully engaged in annoying, sarcastic teenager mode. But I can’t help but feel a little happy when he says stuff like that, knowing that he’s not used to someone caring about him enough to check up on his whereabouts and doings. He pulls a rolled-up stack of paperwork out of his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. “Need some help with this before class. I thought you could . . . you know . . . look it over? If you have time?”
The papers crinkle in his large hands as he squeezes them. “Or you know what, never mind. It’s fine. I’ll see you at home later, Zo.”
I step in front of him, blocking him even though he could plow right over me if he chose to. I hold my hand out, sighing. “Let me see.”
He looks at the papers once more before he hands them over. I unroll them, but not before I notice that he’s turning a bit red. He rubs at his neck as he turns away from me. “This guy’s younger than your usual DBs.”
Subject change, party of one.
“Yeah, was about to get started.” I look at the papers to find that it’s an essay assignment. I scan quickly and realize why Jacob is questioning himself. “Grandpa would love this.”
Eyes locked on the unseeing, closed ones of Chad, Jacob asks me, “You think it’s okay?”
I bump him with my shoulder, hitting his bicep because he’s so damn tall I can’t reach his shoulder. “Better than okay. Turn that in and get your A, but more importantly, you should go by the cemetery and read it to Grandpa. He’d get a kick out of your singing his praises and calling him your hero.”
Jacob smiles, not his normal cocky one but a true, sweet smile that touches my heart. I remember how scared and unsure he was when he first came to Grandpa and Grandma’s house. Too quickly, just like the years passing, that smile turns to orneriness. “You think Holly is there today?”
Holly Linzinski is my best friend, by force. Literally.
We met because she works at the local funeral home as a hair and makeup artist, and she came along for a pickup one day. She glommed onto me like the stickiest glue, and I can’t seem to pry her off no matter how many times I’ve tried. She jokes that she has a death wish, so I’m the perfect bestie.
She’s lying. That blonde, cute tomboy with a killer smile is one of the liveliest and most life-loving people I’ve met.
And also, way too much for Jacob to handle, a fact I try to reiterate for the umpteenth time with a finger in his face. “You leave her alone, you hear me? Hell, you wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like that anyway, so it’s best that you don’t get that particular reminder of how young and innocent you still are.”
“Innocent?” He huffs. “Says you. Holly’s a total MILF. Mom I’d like to . . .” Jacob accents each word with a hip thrust that’s half-dance move and half-sexual move.
I scowl bloody murder at my insolent brother, wondering if I’ll have to add him to the bodies currently piling up in the morgue. “Why, you . . .”
For once in my life, the gods must be listening to my prayers because none other than my bestie, Holly herself, walks in behind Jacob right as he says that.
Instant karma.
Either that, or Jacob has seriously pissed off someone up there in the clouds.
“Mom you’d like to what?” she asks, her mom
voice in full effect. She comes up right behind Jacob, growling in his ear, “I wish a muthafucka would try.”
He whirls in shock, going almost as pale as I am. “Oh! Holly! I didn’t realize . . .”
I laugh, his fear and shock a hell of a lot funnier than mine were earlier when he got me. Holly laughs along with me as she holds up a hand for a high-five.
We smack palms, and Jacob finds his cool guy front, standing up to his full six feet and widening his shoulders. He still looks like the eighteen-year-old kid he is, but he gets points for trying.
“Anything you want, I’m totally down, baby girl.” He throws his voice low, trying to sound like those daddy kink guys on TikTok and failing miserably, mostly because of his baby face. He doesn’t even have to shave more than once a week.
If we were out and some guy approached with that sort of line, Holly would throw her head back and laugh in his face, but because it’s Jacob and she’s kind, she won’t completely destroy him. “Good try, kid, but I heard you right the first time. I just tried to give you a way out by pretending I didn’t. And if I need dick, it’s going to be from someone I don’t have to teach. Ain’t nobody got time for that!” she jokes. “And also, life lesson number 512, when someone says,” she adds a bit of Samuel L Jackson to her tone, “‘wish a muthafucka would,’ it’s never an invitation, no matter how much you’d like it to be.” She punches her palm with her balled-up fist, “I wish. Smack. A muthafucka. Smack. Would. Smack.”
It sounds much more threatening this time, as she intends, and though I know she wouldn’t actually strike Jacob, she does hit him where it hurts.
His pride.
Jacob’s jaw goes tight, but he smiles through it. Same as always, playing it off. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take. I’m gonna keep on aiming for this particular basket.” He dribbles an invisible ball, jumps, and shoots for the basket . . . Holly. “Swish.”
Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 3