He doesn’t answer so much as call the dog to him off mic. “Chunky! Come here. Who’s a good boy?”
I can hear snuffles of breathing and picture Blake curled up on the couch with a dog fighting to get closer to him for loving pats. It’s a cute imaginary picture, but it needs details.
“What are you wearing?” The words pop out before I can stop them.
“Gray sweatpants and dog slobber. You?”
There’s a hint of heat on that last bit as he drags the word out low and slow, letting me hear that eyebrow lift of his in his tone.
Oh, shit, did he think I was trying to take this back to a booty call-slash-phone sex situation? I wasn’t. I mean, I’m not.
“I didn’t mean . . . like for sexy talk. I was trying to picture you and Chunky. What color is he?”
“Actually,” Blake says easily, “he’s pretty peanut butter-colored too. It’s a running theme with this guy.” He pauses to give the dog some smacking kisses, making me smile and wish he were kissing me like that. Sweet, quick, noisy kisses, probably on my forehead. I mean, Chunky’s forehead. “And you didn’t answer the question.”
“Oh, uh . . . just an old T-shirt. I was wrapped up in a blanket, watching television when you called.”
“What’re you watching?”
“Survivor. They’re doing an obstacle course, jumping over these big sand castle things, running down the beach, and swimming around a buoy out in the water.”
“Sounds exciting,” Blake says around a quiet yawn. “Who’s your favorite contestant?”
I tell him about the young woman who’s playing a killer game, acting helpless and uber-friendly, but in the candid interviews she’s actually really good at reading people and playing to who they expect her to be while building alliances.
“Are you asleep?” I ask suddenly, realizing that he’s humming along with me while I extoll the virtues of a television contestant.
“What? No!” he says. Instead of snappy, it’s fuzzy around the edges.
“You are practically snoring in my ear.”
Blake lets off a roof-rattling fake snore. “You’d know it if I were snoring in your ear.”
The assurance makes me laugh.
“Sorry,” he explains more, “I was up early this morning to run and it might be catching up to me. The spirit is willing and happy to talk to you all night, but my eyeballs seem to have other plans.”
“You run?” I ask, and then answer for myself, “of course, you do.”
“With my friend, I thought I mentioned him. Anyway, he kicked my ass this morning, told me to stop pussing out and call you.”
I don’t think Blake has been weak a single day in his life, but I like that he didn’t take calling me too casually. That someone like him had a bit of nerves about someone like me makes my insides fizzy.
“Well, just know that if you ever see me running, it’s because zombies are chasing me. And I will trip you. I don’t have to be the fastest, just not the slowest. I will drop you like the ‘Drop Dead’ moniker suggests.”
Oh, my God, did I just make a joke about that? Horror blooms, but when Blake chuckles, I realize that maybe it’s okay. Maybe I’m okay. A little.
“Duly noted,” Blake says. “But they wouldn’t find me much of a meal. Not enough brains.”
“I highly doubt that. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . and warn you . . . and try to scare you off . . . oh yeah, and warn you.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and then Blake speaks again, his voice low and intent. “I’m still willing to take my chances with you, Miss Walker.”
I smile at his persistence. “Well, I’m still not willing to go out on a date with you, Mr. Hale.”
I’m getting weaker by the second but fighting to be strong, for both our sakes. His, because if he possesses zero survival instinct or self-preservation, I’ll find it inside myself for him.
And me?
I don’t know if I can handle another loss, another reminder that I’m meant to be alone.
“We’ll see. But I really should go, I guess. My alarm goes off at five for another run. I’m hoping my five-mile time will better tomorrow because you had me tied up in knots today.”
The accusation gives me all sorts of naughty ideas about knots, mainly ones where I’m folded into one with my knees by my ears.
“Good night, Blake.” I give him his name easily this time after all we’ve shared.
“Good night, Zo,” he says, and I can hear it in his voice. He heard that use of his name. “Sleep well.”
Chapter 9
Blake
“Blake Hale, how can I help you today?” Recognizing the corporate home office number, I answer my phone in my most professional voice, fixing a smile on my face just to be safe. They say you can hear a smile in someone’s voice, after all.
“Hey, Blake, it’s Frederick. How’re you?”
Frederick is the vice-president over claims for the Everlife company and a guy I only speak with occasionally.
He’s nice enough, but there’s something about him that makes me envision a fat cat in a pinstriped suit checking a gold pocket watch when we talk. And I suspect that if you don’t dance to his tune, that niceness goes away very quickly.
“Good. How’re you? The wife and kids?” Small talk, an evil necessity. Honestly, at least two-thirds of my business is exactly that.
But Frederick is used to it and cuts through it quickly. “They’re fine. Look, I’m calling about a pain in my ass that I’m hoping you can help with.”
I don’t suggest that he should probably see a proctologist for that and should definitely not be oversharing with his agents this way, but I think it really hard, hoping he’ll get the message.
“Uh, okay?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, not wanting to hear this.
“I got a call from a client. She was going on and on about her husband dying and how we’re dragging our feet on paying out his policy.”
Relief flows through me as I realize he’s being dramatic and not calling to discuss his prostate. But Frederick isn’t usually the type to exaggerate, so how bad was this client?
“Actually, she was more droning on about the money than the husband. I don’t know, maybe she’s got a house she’s trying to save or something noble like that, but . . .” He lets the word fall off, telling me he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Neither do I. And I’m beginning to get a much clearer picture. Are there cases where people are desperate to cash in a policy to make some grand gesture to save a loved one’s legacy?
Sure.
But they are much more rare than money-grubbing family members who want to take the money and run.
“Let me guess . . . Yvette Horne.”
“Yvette Horne,” Frederick confirms with a bitter chuckle. “She was worth three Alka-Seltzers, you know.”
“She came to see me a few days ago, said corporate sent her to me for the face-to-face. We filled out the claim and it’s in process. I explained that it can take some time.”
Frederick snorts. “Yeah, well, she didn’t get the message because she’s not giving us any. Woman already retained a lawyer and is sending us certified letters threatening her intention to sue if we don’t show some hustle.”
“What?” I exclaim. “And legal didn’t tell them to fuck off?” So much for my professionalism, but Yvette’s threats are way out of bounds given the timeline.
“Lawyers don’t do that, you know,” Frederick says. “They try to be more circumspect than that.” It could be a criticism, but Frederick’s tone is ramping up in frustration too.
“The man just died, and we only filled out the claim days ago,” I protest, repeating what we both already know. “Does she expect me to pull the money out of my ass like a rabbit from a hat? I’m not a magician.”
“No, she’s just trying to light a fire under our asses and get her money sooner rather than later. Which makes me question . . . is it a legit claim?”
I can appreciate his concern, especially when a widow or widower seems to be pulling a fast one. Or trying to, at least. In response, I pull the file folder from the small stack on my desk and flip it open, perusing the claim form I filled out with Ms. Horne’s help.
The next page is the death certificate with Zoey’s loopy handwriting.
“The death certificate is fine, but there’s an exception note. Toxicology reports show unusually elevated metal levels, which is weird, but not enough to be the cause of death. Hmm.” I hum out loud as I think.
“What?” Frederick asks on a chuckle. “Did he live in an old house and lick the paint? Or work in a factory? Or chew on pencils as an afternoon snack?”
“No, no, and pencils are graphite, not lead,” I answer automatically. “Chewing on them can wreck your teeth but not increase metal levels in your blood.”
“You would be the one to know that, wouldn’t you?” he says, chuckling harder now. The image of his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly comes to my mind.
“The police are still investigating because there’s no clear cause of death, though there were some heart abnormalities too. Until they close the case, we can’t pay out the claim, anyway. Mrs. Horne will have to wait.”
“Too bad it wasn’t a suicide,” Frederick says on a sigh. “No claim payout then.”
That’s true, but callous, even for a joke.
“Pretty sure he didn’t poison himself into a heart attack,” I answer flatly. “It’d be the most unique case for the books if he did.”
“Yeah, I figured. Well, be on alert with this one. I get the feeling this woman is going to be a problem. Maybe check in with the police and coroner so we can get in front of any potential lawsuit?”
Actually, that’s a great idea, and a really good excuse to go see Zoey again in her safe space. At work.
Yeah, I’m going to track her down again, barge into her morgue, and see if I can get her to eat dinner with me again. It might not be an official date the way I want it to be, but I’ll take what I can get.
A guy’s gotta eat, and so does Zoey.
* * *
The Williamson County Sheriff’s Office is quiet when I walk inside. Actually, it’s basically a ghost town with no one in sight. There are six desks with ancient desktop computers, a water cooler between two windows, and a long table beneath a dry erase board off to the side that seems to be a shared workspace.
“Hello?” I call out.
A door opens on my right, and a blonde, middle-aged man in a tan uniform appears. He swipes at his mustache . . . no, he’s checking his breath. My guess is he was out on a smoke break.
“Sheriff Jeff Barnes, what can I do for you?” he offers. He doesn’t offer a hand, which I honestly appreciate. Instead, he gives me a professional nod.
It’s good, and I return the gesture. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I’m Blake Hale from Everlife Insurance. I’d like to talk to you about a claim we’ve had from the beneficiary of Richard Horne.”
Jeff’s lips quirk under his thick mustache, but he reassumes his professional demeanor quickly. “Sure thing. Hale, you said? Come on over here and let me see what I got on ol’ Dickie Boy.”
He sits down at one of the desks and reaches for the single manilla folder in the basket. Opening it, he licks his finger and uses it to point as he scans down the page. “Yeah, Horne died at home, nose down in his breakfast. Autopsy was hinky, so we can’t close the case yet.”
“I saw that in the report too. What’s the investigation of that looking like? Any leads on what might’ve caused the blood abnormalities?”
Jeff sighs as he drops the folder back in the basket. “Nah, we’re waiting on a rerun of the toxicology. Problem is that our local lab is a little slow. Budget, you know. To make sure there was no mistake, we had to ship blood and tissue samples up to the state lab. And they make us look fast.”
“A mistake?” I question. “So you’re not looking into a possible exposure?”
Sheriff Barnes shakes his head, eyeing me like I’m stupid for even asking the question. “No need until the report is confirmed, which it probably won’t be.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair, seeming wholly unconcerned for Mr. Horne’s results, and I get the feeling he really wouldn’t care about Mrs. Horne’s claim.
“Okay, I guess I’ll follow up on that then. I’m going to see the coroner next.”
That gets Barnes’s attention. His feet hit the floor with a thud, and he bolts upright and leans across the desk toward me. “You’re going to see Zoey?”
My eyes narrow. He doesn’t seem protective or caring. More so, he seems concerned or even fearful. I don’t like it, not after how the folks at the bar treated her.
So it’s hard to keep the ice out of my voice as I clip out, “Yes, she’s the coroner on file for Mr. Horne.”
“Yeah, she would be.” He nods, agreeing with himself. “She’s . . . well, she’s . . .” He seems unsure how to complete that sentence, and I want to give him more than enough rope to hang himself with.
“She’s what?” I prompt.
“She’s a strange one, our Zoey,” he whispers.
“Strange how?” I’m going to make him say it, whatever it is. I want to hear what’s truly on his mind so I can decide just how bad, and how widespread, this situation with Zoey is. She said ‘everyone’ thinks she’s cursed, but surely, these people aren’t that superstitious?
“Well, she can’t help it, working with the dead all the time. She just talks to them a bit, you know?” He nods like that’s just fine, normal behavior. “And poor thing has had more than her fair share of bad luck. You’d think she was born on Friday the thirteenth, under a ladder, while a black cat was walkin’ by, the way it is. It’s bound to make a person a bit . . .” He whirls a thick finger by his temple with a teasing smile that says ‘you know what I mean’. “She’s all right, you know. Damn good at her job, and mighty pretty to look at. Just an odd bird.”
There’s a mix of respect and fear in his words, and I decide to swallow down my indignant anger at his assessment of Zoey, who is perfect just the way she is.
How do these people not see how amazing she is? And more importantly, how fast can I see her?
Because I want to wash away all these people’s preconceived notions that Zoey has internalized and get her to go out with me again.
* * *
I can feel the chill of Zoey’s world before the door even opens, the fingers of overly air-conditioned air reaching down the hall. Normally, it’d give me shivers, but being this close to seeing her again has me burning, and the coolness is a welcome reprieve so I don’t look like a sweaty nerd on his first date.
I take one last breath to still my excited nerves and push open the door—ready to see her, ready to hear about her day while I watch her red lips form words, and ready to learn more about this woman who is haunting my every thought.
“Zoey?” I call out as I open the door.
She jumps a foot in the air as she whirls. “Shit, you scared me!” she shrieks, but she’s already laughing at her overreaction, her palm pressed to her chest where I’m guessing her heart is racing.
I laugh a little too. “We have to stop meeting like this.”
I take three steps across the room to stand directly in front of her, seriously thankful that there’s no body on the table and her hands are clean this time.
She seems to be working on the paperwork spread out along the stainless-steel table. Her breath hitches, and I feel a sense of relief that my nearness affects her the same way hers affects me.
The air between us charges with sparkles of electricity, making me even more grateful for the cold air.
“Better meeting like this than a car crash.” I offer a smile, letting her know it’s a tease, and her lips quirk, though she doesn’t grant me her full smile . . . yet. She’s a harder win than that, but I’m up for the challenge.
No doubt about that.
“Valid point, but maybe
too soon?” she questions. “Are you here to ask me to dinner again?”
“Yes and no,” I reply, giving her my most charming smile. It’s definitely not hard with her. “I had to come out here for work reasons, but I’m hoping you’ll take pity on me and accompany me to dinner before I make the long drive back.”
I flash her my best puppy dog eyes and am finally given that smile I’ve been craving. I saw it fade so completely at dinner the other night and have dreamt of watching her mouth lift in happiness once again.
I bask in it for a quick heartbeat until she asks, “Work?”
Ugh, that.
“Yes, in a small-world twist, I’m here to follow up on someone we have in common. Richard Horne.”
Zoey’s brows knit together, a cute little wrinkle between them. “Dick Horne. The nickname that’s worse than the given one. Pretty sadistic of his parents, if you ask me.” She looks haunted for a moment, as though hearing a line of people calling her Drop-Dead Gorgeous in her mind. Refocusing, she asks, “What about him?”
“Well, I had a visit from Yvette Horne, his widow,” I explain. “Mr. Horne had a rather large life insurance policy, and the head office has me handling the case. She’s putting pressure on us to finalize the payout, but until the case is resolved, we can’t do that. Since you’re the coroner on file, I wanted to see if you had any insight or information about the toxicology report and cause of death.”
Too late, I realize that though Zoey hasn’t moved, the scant inches between us have grown, filling with distant professionalism.
“Oh, all my findings are in the report. And the repeat toxicology is expected soon, but no promises on a delivery date.” Her tone is clipped and practiced, that of a medical personnel to an outsider.
“Don’t do that, Zo,” I whisper-growl, dropping all pretenses of professionalism. “Having a case in common is no big deal.”
“It is when the case is ongoing,” she disagrees. “It could be seen as unprofessional or a conflict of interest.”
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