Page 127 of Mourner for Hire
“The funeral is over,” he says.
“People ask for different things sometimes. Your mom did,” I remind him. I walk toward the cemetery, the blanket of dusk swallowing up the daylight with each passing moment.
“What did this lady ask for?”
“Man. Forty-three and an extreme introvert. His name was Greg Baxter,” I answer as we climb the hill and then find the brand-new headstone near an oak tree, the leaves burning bright orange and the soil freshly patted and raked.
I roll out a tarp from my basket to place under our sleeping bags to protect us from the dew.
“Okay…” Dominic draws it out. “I’m still not following.”
“All he wanted was for someone to stay the night with him the first night he’s in the cemetery because he’s an extreme introvert and has trouble making friends, and he didn’t want to be alone.” I grin up at Dominic as I take the sleeping bag from him and roll it out.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“We can’t stay the night in a cemetery.”
“It’s not illegal.”
“I think it is…” His jaw is getting a little shifty, and his eyes dart all around the cemetery.
A laugh falls out of me. “Oh, Dominic, are you scared?”
“No,” he says quickly, but the way it comes out makes him sound like a cranky teenager.
I laugh. “We’ll be fine.”
“How do you know? Have you done this before?”
“No, but I brought hot apple cider,” I answer as if that makes everything better.
His expression flattens. “Really? Apple cider is going to protect us from—” he gestures to the headstones around us, “—ghosts.”
“Ghosts aren’t real,” I bite back, but it feels like I sank teethinto my own skin. Annabelle cartwheels through my mind, and I stare at Dominic for a beat.
“What?” he asks. “You do see ghosts, don’t you?”
“No!” I shriek.
“I knew it. You’re a freaking witch?—”
“Ghosts are not witchy.” I wince.
“One of those spirit guide thingy majiggies.”
“Okay. First of all, people are not thingy majiggies. They are human beings. And I think you’re thinking of the term medium, and no, I’m not that. I’m just a regular person.”
He glares at me.
“Lay down, Dominic.”
He doesn’t.
“Lay down. Drink apple cider. Take a damn breath. You’re making Greg nervous.”
He starts to recline on the sleeping bag and then snaps his head in my direction. “Who the fuck is Greg?”
