Page 47 of Death and Do-Overs

“Uh….”

She didn’t remember specifics. I couldn’t be mad at her for it because I didn’t remember him at all.

She said, “I could message Wendy. I’m sorry. I was so set on Anous, I pretty much blanked out on the rest.”

“It’s fine.”

Imogen adjusted in her seat. “Did you have fun with Rose?”

“Fun?”

Her smile dropped. “I mean…how did it go yesterday and everything?”

“Wendy’s magic worked, or at least it was starting to.”

Imogen grabbed my hands and squeezed. The sudden movement caught me by surprise. I forced myself not to pull away.

“That isthe bestnews,” she said. “I’m so proud of her, embracing her gift. Magic is awesome, isn’t it? So did Nie tell you everything that happened? Was it a waste of time to do my suspect ratings? I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask—does Nie need something to eat, too? I could get her a donut. Where is she?”

Imogen bent down and checked under the table.

A knot formed in my stomach.

Unsure how to respond to her barrage of questions, I said, “Someone broke into my hotel room and took Nie’s head.”

She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh no. Did you see who did it?”

“I saw a shadowy figure on the balcony. Almost like living shadows, if that’s possible.”

She scrunched her lips together. “That almost sounds like a reaper. But it’s not Birdie.”

“Bernadette is on the passenger list, Imogen. She rode the same train as Nie from Piccadilly to Nevermore. She liveshere. The real one-hundred-one percent suspicious suspect isn’t Anous. It’s Bernadette.”

“You’re right,” Imogen said softly. “Of course she’s suspicious. But I really think she didn’t do it.”

“Only one way to find out.” I’d been waiting for Imogen to do this. I tossed back the last of my coffee. “Ready?”

“No. Definitely not.” Imogen repacked her bag full of books, zipped it, then turned to me. “Okay, still mostly not ready, but let’s do it anyway.”

CHAPTER 11

MAR

On the way to the address written on the passenger list, there was no bounce in Imogen’s step. She looked increasingly agitated the closer we got to the reaper’s house. I wasn’t sure if that agitation was because Imogen hated the possibility that the friendship speech she’d delivered to the reaper hadn’t landed the way she’d hoped, or if she was afraid the reaper would once again take the form of a sheep. Probably both.

The house looked just like all the rest—stone, dark, Victorian. We went up to the door. Imogen steeled herself then knocked.

“Just a moment,” a light voice said from somewhere inside the house.

A moment later the door opened.

Bernadette was a living ice sculpture. Her skin was unnaturally pale and as inhumanly smooth as her expression. Her hair looked so much like snow that if I reached a finger out and touched it, it might melt. Her eyes made up for the lack of color elsewhere, like two black holes, threatening to suck all life out of the world.

The only thing human about the reaper was her clothes—gray loungewear, completely at odds with everything else about her.

As soon as recognition flashed in her dark eyes, her expression soured, as did her tone. “Ugh. It’s you.”

She closed the door all but a sliver.

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