Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Now I can’t stop thinking about gray skin and pink light bulbs. I don’t want to hurt Margot’s feelings, so I force a tight smile. “Learn something new every day.”
She winces. “You kinda wish you didn’t know that now, don’t you?”
She reads me too easily. “It’s my fault for asking.”
Gretel’s clearly had enough of our lazy morning conversation. She flips and twists her body until she’s on her feet, then uses my legs as a launching pad.
“So violent,” I laugh, turning to watch her streak through the open door.
“Sorry,” Margot says.
“It’s fine. She jumped onto the bed so daintily earlier, I got worried.” Uncomfortable sensations prickle against my neck. I hate letting Margot think I don’t want to learn about her job. “Hey, I like all your little mortuary secrets. I think it’s…nice that you do so much to make sure the last moments people get with their loved ones are as pleasant as they can be.”
Relief or gratitude spreads over her expression. “Thanks.”
“What does today’s schedule look like?”
“A service for a nice man from the neighborhood. His kids have been sweet. They’re just…heartbroken.”
“No one fighting over his stuff yet?”
“No, thankfully. He was a friend of my dad’s, sort of—like grab morning coffee at Stewart’s and have a chat kind of friends…”
Somehow, I don’t picture Mr. Cedarwood running down to Stewart’s in his suit and tie to have coffee with the locals, but maybe I’ve been judging him too harshly.
“…So, he did the restorative work.”
“Wait, what? You…he…you work on people you know?”
“Well, yeah,” she says with a large dose of duh in her voice. “I don’t think Mr. Lewis would’ve been comfortable having a woman he’s known since she was a toddler working on him.”
“Huh.” I frown, giving it some thought. “It’s nice someone still cares about what they think after they’re…gone.”
“It’s important.”
“Still thinking I really want to be tossed in a bonfire, though.” I grin at her, but she doesn’t laugh.
Her face scrunches as if she’s in pain. “Don’t joke about that. The world would be so much…duller without you in it.”
“Trust me. I’m not going anywhere.”
I lean in and kiss her cheek. She’s got a long day ahead, and so do I if I plan on sticking close. But my gut’s telling me to stick around.
To keep her safe.
From the world. And from herself.
Maybe it’s paranoia. Or maybe it’s knowing how the world works. Maybe I’ve seen people I care about get burned by their pasts too many times. Secrets have a way of crawling into the light. But if someone starts sniffing around Margot’s?
They’ll have to get through me first.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Margot
Jigsaw’s acceptance came easier than I anticipated. He’s still here. I half expected to wake up in an empty bed and get a “this call cannot go through…” message when I dialed his number.
And even though it clearly makes him uncomfortable, he lets me tell him a little about my job. Why does it feel so nice to talk about it with someone who isn’t a mortician and still have them understand?
My phone buzzes and I grab it off the counter. I release a sigh as I read the text.
“Your dad again?” Jigsaw asks.
“No.” I type out a quick reply, then open my notes app and the details of the text. “A client who wanted a slight change to her grandmother’s obituary. I need to make sure I do that before it gets sent to the paper. Her grandmother raised her and she’s having a really hard time.”
Jigsaw moves closer and eases his arms around me. “You can only take on so much grief. I know you’re good at your job, but the emotional side will suck you under if you let it.”
As much as I want to deny it and tell him to mind his own business, I know he’s right.
My phone buzzes again. “The accessibility and personal connection is why we’ve been in business for three generations.” I reach for my phone and read the text. “But it’s exhausting sometimes, too,” I admit.
Jigsaw stares at me for so long, fear swirls in my stomach. What’s going through his mind?
“Is this what you’ve always wanted to do?” he asks.
I open my mouth to say yes, of course. But the truth stops me. I’d wanted to be a cosmetologist—for the living. “Well, I wanted to do makeup—just not for the dead.” I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable talking about this. “But I feel like I get to help people more this way.”
“I know you do.” He curls his hands around mine. “Your clients are lucky to have someone as compassionate and kind as you are to help them through difficult times.” He hesitates and looks away for a second. “But what about the toll it takes on you?”
Suddenly, it feels like we’re talking about something else. “Do you mean I wouldn’t murder people if I chose a different career path?”