Page 31 of Death and Do-Overs

She sighed.“Yes.”

That was three different words she’d said now. I needed to forget about Levi Rivers and focus on my mission. Also, why hadn’t I heard from Imogen yet? Even if there were more train delays, she should at least be on her way by now.

I snatched the glove off the ground and slipped it into my bag, then pulled out my phone and snapped as many pictures of the scene as possible before it got too dark. On the way out, I went to text Imogen, and found a string of messages from her that I’d missed.

Imogen:I’m on my way! You can count on me!

Imogen:At the train station. They say there are no more trains tonight. I’m gonna bodysnatch this dude and see if he’s lying.

Getting his autonomy stolen twice in one day—I felt a little sorry for Ticket Guy.

Imogen:Fiddlesticks. He’s not lying. :(

Imogen:Looking up directions to drive to New Jersey.

Imogen:There are no roads in Nevermore???? How can an island have only one way in and one way out? And that way is by train of all things? Shouldn’t there be boats and stuff?

Imogen:How do they get their milk?

Imogen:I can’t be there until morning, when the train comes. Apparently I can’t charter boats or helicopters or anything, which is crazy. I’m so sorry I’ve failed you. Please forgive me. How can I make this up to you???

I pinched the bridge of my nose as I digested her rambling messages. If I didn’t respond, she’d keep freaking out until she got here tomorrow.

Me:Everything is fine. See you tomorrow.

Three dots appeared as she typed an immediate response.

Imogen:Please don’t die before I get there.

I typed:I’ll try to wait to die until you’re nearby.Then I deleted the snarky text instead of sending it. And I sighed, because caring about other people’s feelings was exhausting.

Me:Goodnight, Imogen.

Imogen:Goodnight, bestie.

“Die here,” Nie said, and this time it didn’t sound like she was talking about what had happened to her. It felt like a warning to me.

I frowned down at her. “Let’s hope not.”

CHAPTER 8

MAR

With its intricate carvings and towering spires, the Mournmore Hotel exuded an air of faded grandeur. Menacing gargoyles perched on the eaves, watching over the tall yet narrow building. One of the pedestals was empty. Ivy crept up the stone walls, framing stained glass windows that shimmered in faded and forgotten hues. Whispered secrets lingered in the frigid night air.

Maybe I could find a gargoyle in a shop in Nevermore for my own home to scare away solicitors and visitors alike.

I cracked open one of the massive double doors and headed straight for the reception desk. Something appeared to be moving behind it, like someone was crouched there searching the mottled puke-green carpet for something they’d dropped.

When I reached the desk, I realized my mistake.

The character behind it wasn’t crouched, but standing, at a stature that couldn’t exceed three and a half feet.

He appeared to be poorly chiseled out of a single, jagged piece of stone, with a patch of moss on the top of his head in the shape of hair. He wore a makeshift tunic fashioned from scraps of fabric and fallen leaves. Just below his left shoulder, a name tag marked him as Grit.

I wondered if the moniker was meant to suggest he was hard working and never gave up, or if it referred to dirt. Better not to ask.

Grit waved at me. “Need room?”

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