Page 27 of Mourner for Hire
I dodged a bullet when she started crying and yapping about her dead mom at my bar instead of easing out of her clothes into my bed.
It would have been a sloppy one-night stand, but considering I don’t do those, I wouldn’t have beaten myself up over it. But knowing she met my mother, swindled her out of fifty grand, and showed up at the funeral makes me fume with anger.
I didn’t want to believe it when the will was read. Her lawyer, Sully, just kept saying to trust Mom. She has a plan. But I only saw red, refusing to believe someone as smart as my own mother could be so easily conned.
Then I remember how easy it was for Vada to con me. She waltzed into my bar with a shy smile and vulnerability that screamed safe space. By the end of the night, she had me nearly wrapped around her witchy finger.
I can’t believe I was stupid enoughto fall for her act.
Not anymore. Now that she’s in town, acting all doe-eyed and innocent, I plan to make her feel as unwelcome as possible. She’ll be pulling out of town and forfeiting the inheritance before she can even tear out the old carpet in the cottage.
EIGHT
VADA
Guilt and humiliationkept me from even looking in the rearview mirror as I drove all the way home to Portland. A gray cloud is cast over the sky, letting a dense fog hover over the city. I let out a breath. There were no ghostly encounters for the entire two-hour drive, and I made sure to keep my entire vehicle free of distractions that I could possibly construe as the undead. My hands were on ten and two. Absolutely no true crime podcasts, and the radio was silent so I could see better.
That’s it, anyway. It must have just been my eyes—a hallucination triggered by grief. That’s a real thing: grief hallucinations. I didn’t see Annabelle in the cemetery. She didn’t speak to me. It was all in my head—triggered by her photograph or a song maybe.
When I finally make it to my apartment door, my humiliation has spiked to an overdose of mortification, and I slam the door shut behind me and flop on my couch, throwing my arms over my face.
“I’m calling Dr. Schmidt first thing tomorrow,” I mutter—a vocal reminder to myself.
“Who’s that?”
I scream at the sound of Annabelle’s voice, crawling up on the couch like a mouse is scurrying across the floor.My heart is pounding against the palm I’m holding to my chest, and a film of cold sweat immediately coats my skin.
Annabelle tilts her head, studying me as she moves through my apartment and takes a seat across from me on the chaise lounge.
“You all right, honey? I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says, then snorts, adjusting in the chair. “Well, actually, I had a feeling I would, so I didn’t want to have this conversation while driving. That’d be dangerous. Probably worse than texting and driving, or even drunk driving. No, nothing’s worse than drunk driving.” She assumes the position on the chaise with a dramatic hand to her forehead, her black hair fanned out against the emerald velvet. “What would we call it? Ghost driving? What is that one thing you kids used to say in middle school? Ghost ride the car?”
“Ghost ride the whip,” I correct with zero inflection. Half my body is numb, and the other is buzzing with nerves. Not quite fear. Annabelle is quirky, to say the least, and a rambling, overbearing, motherly jokester who talks too fast, to say the most.
“Ah, yes. Ghost ride the whip,” she hums the words and sinks further into the chaise. “These chairs are fabulous—very dramatic. Like me!” Her cackle echoes in my small one-bedroom apartment.
I stare at her, still crouching on the corner of my suede couch. She pops her eyes open and looks at me with a smile.
“I like your place,” she remarks, then looks around.
“Thanks,” I say wearily.
“Very eclectic,” she adds.
I nod and scan the apartment with new eyes. The wood floors are original to the building, marked by years of use, and rich with a cherry stain. My tan suede couch has clean lines but is rather comfortable for its size. I opted for an emerald velvet chaise instead of a chair or loveseat because, one, I am dramatic, and two, working in death can be utterly exhausting. The room is grounded with a bright Persian rug with hints of emerald and burgundy that match the kitchen cabinets.
Annabelle sighs. “Everything is so rich. The wooden countertops, the exposed brick, the colors of the rug.” She pauses and shimmies a bit into the lounge. “This velvet. It all feels so warm.”
“Thank you,” I say again, blinking hard and hoping my sanity has returned and she’s not there when I open my eyes again.
“They don’t tell you that about being dead.”
“What?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me. I settle into the corner of the couch, easing my way into my lunacy.
“It’s cold here—when you die. I thought Heaven would feel like the warmth of the sun on an August day, but it feels like nothing.”
She seems to think for a moment about what she just said. Either that, or she’s about to drop another weird truth about being dead.
I clear my throat. “Well, you aren’t in Heaven so?—”
