Page 69 of The Devils They Are

The crisp white double doors are wooden and freshly painted. I wouldn't be surprised if they have to clean them often. The hand marks and fingerprints would be a pain in the ass to keep off. Alongside it, two colorful, frosted glass windows hide the inside. It gives an illusion—that life is technicolor. But all I see is black and white. Death.

"Are you ready?"

Slowly, I look over at my best friend, appreciative that he's now also mirroring a stoic expression. It's the silent strength I need, and I nod again, unclipping my seatbelt.

After my confession in class yesterday, Arch followed me back home. I'm not sure if it was just to solely get answers out of me, or if he needed to see it for himself. But the empty house took both of us by surprise.

It's been nearly a week. You'd think I would be used to the silence at home now. But every day when I walk in and nothing has been touched, nothing has been moved, and she's nowhere to be seen… it's a new wave of'Fuck. This is real.'

I had curled up on the sofa, filling Arch in about everything. Except it kills me because I don't knoweverything. This was never the expected outcome. No one had voiced any concerns that Mom was terminally sick. If I had known… things would be different. Sure, the end result would have been the same—but I would be different. I could have prepared. I could have made better choices.

I have to hand it to him though. Arch handled it well—even when I admitted to what I had done with Rylan. Not that I expected him to say anything snarky. Arch isn't like that. But given our rocky situation at present, I thought for sure I'd see some type of resentment or judgement staring back at me. There was none—just sorrow and regret. Mom was family to Arch too. Before Dad left, we'd have sleepovers as kids. Mom would bake her amazing peanut butter cookies for us. She held that recipe close to her heart, guarded—and we were the only two people alive that she let in on that secret. It was special. Even Dad used to watch sports on the TV with Arch. But only one guy was man enough to stick around for me… and he's by my side as we walk through the doors.

Mr. Morrison comes hobbling out of his office when the door creaks shut behind us. His neatly trimmed white hair oddly matches the decor, and he gives me a soft smile.

"Bexley. It's lovely to see you again."

"You too," I lie.

Arch holds out his hand, introducing himself before we're guided into the office. I've already been in here, but I spot Arch glance around with curiosity.

We take a seat on the two single-sized plush leather chairs in front of Mr. Morrison's desk.

"I gave you some pamphlets the other day about different types of services. Have you had a chance to look through them or would you like to discuss them individually?" he says politely.

Shifting in my seat, I do my best not to hurl into the trash can that's in the corner of the room. "I haven't look yet," I admit. "I'm still unsure about what to do."

He nods, opening a folder. "It can be overwhelming," he starts, sounding apologetic. "But with our packages, all you have to do is pick one and we'll handle the rest. All we ask is you provide us with some personalized touches—such as any particular music or photographs you would like to use. Perhaps your dear mother had a favorite song or flower that we can incorporate into the service."

There's a giant rock sitting on my chest. Well, it feels like it. I have no idea how I'm meant to tell him that I can't afford to pay for Mom's service. All the packages are ridiculously expensive. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that weddings and funerals are horribly priced. At least with a wedding, you get to enjoy the day you pay for. Mom isn't here to see her funeral… if she was then I wouldn't be in this room. It still astounds me—the concept of funerals. I know it's a celebration of life, a goodbye to a lovely existence, remembering all the good that person put into the world. But how can you see it like that when someone is ripped from you so prematurely?

"Before we start on any of that." I take a deep breath. "Can we discuss payment plan options?"

I can't be the first person in this position. If anything, I'd bet that it's really common. It's not really a comforting thought, but there would have to be options in place for people like me. I mean, they wouldn't just dump a body and deny a service. Right?

Suddenly, my mind goes haywire with images of mobster-dressed funeral directors, dumping bodies into the Ridgeview Valley canyon. Shit. I bet there are actually bodies down there. Probably not from funeral parlors… but dead bodies, nonetheless.

"Payment options?" Mr. Morrison repeats, an air of confusion laced in his voice.

Arch reaches over and squeezes my hand, silently encouraging me to speak up. Bless him. He has a few thousand saved up for college and he offered it to me. I said no, of course. We're so close to graduating that I know there's no way I'd get the money back to him in time. I'm not about to shit all over his future just because mine is sinking to the bottom of the ocean in concrete buckets.

"I don't have any savings," I say. "And Mom didn't have assets. All we have is the house and I'm not in a position to sell that. I want her to have a decent funeral, but I'm financially stuck at the moment."

When his brows furrow, I quickly take a breath, continuing. "But I'm willing to get a job. I'll enter into a payment plan and work to pay it off. We can keep costs to a bare minimum—whatever you think is best."

My hand is squeezed again, and I shoot Arch a small smile, realizing just how much he's keeping me cool headed right now. If he wasn't here, I'd probably be on my knees, wailing like a newborn baby and begging for help. Or at home on the sofa, buried under a thick layer of blankets with music blaring so loudly that the cops turn up and arrest me for being a nuisance.

"Bexley, you'll have to forgive my reaction. But I'm a little confused."

Great. I have to explain all over again. I thought I was pretty clear. There's only so many ways you can say you are poor. I spent ages rehearsing my speech, searching for jobs on the internet. I even started putting together a résumé—not that I have any prior experience to list.

"What she means is we are keen to lay Savanna to rest as soon as possible. But we just need to be mindful of costs and work out a repayment schedule," Arch says for me.

Mr. Morrison gives him a bright smile. Seriously? He understood Arch's words and not mine?

Maybe I'm just rambling and in my head it makes sense, but out loud I'm slurring with nerves.

"Forgive me… but Savanna's services have already been prepaid."

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