Page 96 of Mourner for Hire
I smirk at her. “I get ten grand… and you get ten grand.”
“For an hour of work?” She shakes her head, her jaw practically on the ground. “I am in the wrong industry. I would have done this for fifty bucks.”
“Me, too.” I restrain another laugh. “But money is money. Mrs. Harmon was ready to give it away like candy on Halloween… except to her sons.”
“Yes, of course. Except them. Assholes.”
“Scum of the earth.”
“The worst kind of dicks. I want to burn them alive. I wish we could pluck out their fingernails and hang them up by their toes to bleed out?—”
“Okay,” I cut off her dramatics, squeezing her hand lightly. “Let’s get this job done.”
We walk up the hill and take our seats. I spot the will executor, Henry Spencer, in the front row, next to Barron and Timothy.
A middle-aged woman with smoky eye makeup and maroon lipstick dabs at her eyes next to Morgan, who makes a quick, empathetic noise.
“How did you know Marilee?” the woman asks.
Morgan’s empathetic face drops into a stone-cold stare, andshe says with bereft vibrato mixed with a heeded warning, “You will know soon enough. You all will.”
I bury my face in a handkerchief to stifle my laughter as the woman’s eyes go wide. She withdraws back to her assumed husband, and Morgan looks at me and winks. I shake my head.
“That was good,” she whispers.
“Yeah, but tone it down,” I murmur.
“Right. Mysteriousness is subtle.” She raises and tilts her chin robotically and stares ahead, her face a mixture of shock and devastation.
I decide to stop looking at her, or I’m going to start laughing, and once I start, there will be no stopping.
The ceremony continues. Finally, after the sons’ crocodile tears and the priest’s prayers, Henry Spencer stands to say the final words about Marilee. Tears fill his eyes as he speaks about her, a fondness of a dear friend lost too soon.
Then he says, “When we went over her will and her final wishes, she was very clear that she wanted everyone here to hear from two people.” He nods at us. “Ladies, if you would.”
Morgan and I walk toward the casket hand in hand. When we get to the front, she lets out a whimper, and the sound startles me, almost making me laugh, but I recover enough before we turn to present a united front.
All eyes are on us—I can feel them, not see them. My gaze stays fixed on the giant evergreen tree in the distance, just above the crowd.
“Everyone. Marilee’s daughters.”
Collective gasps abound, covering my skin in gooseflesh and making my heart pound. I hate public speaking. I’m not even a good actress. But this is a unique job, and I do what it takes to get it done.
“Hi, everyone. My name is Juniper, and this is Jan. It’s true—we’re Marilee’s daughters. We never knew our mother.” I choke on my spit, but it’s okay because it’s just making me lookemotional, not incompetent at public speaking. “Or our brothers,” I add, using Marilee’s pre-morbid suggestion.
“Bullshit!” the short one shouts, standing.
Morgan squeezes my hand. She’s about to lose her mind with laughter.
“I’m afraid it’s true, Timothy.”
“I’m Barron!”
The tall one rolls his eyes.
“Right. Sorry, Barron. I wish we met under better circumstances. But it’s true, Marilee is our mother. When we were notified of her death, all the things we thought we could have with her one day when we found her vanished in an instant.” My chest twists, and tears drip down my face. Again, I’m not an actress, but the emotion stems from my own aching hollowness at missing my mother. “We’re broken up about it, wishing we had a life with our biological mother, but are so grateful she is leaving her legacy with us.”
Another gasp.
