Page 145 of Remy

I school the guilt from my features. “Nothing major. I just forgot to get meat out of the freezer.”

“How admirably domesticated of you.” She chuckles. “I mean, at least it would’ve been if you hadn’t forgotten. Want coffee?”

“Make me a double espresso and I’ll give you my firstborn.”

I have high hopes on Friday, because hope is all I have with the current radio silence. Problem is, as soon as I reach the parking lot and see Wesley’s car I know the retort will be warm.

“Why isn’t he returning my texts?” I announce loudly to the empty reception area.

Footsteps carry down the hall, Remy’s lap dog walking into the room a few seconds later. “Did you say something?”

I clench my teeth. He knows exactly what I said. “You’re obviously in direct communication with him.”

“I’m only doing what I’m told.”

“And what were you told, Wesley?”

He shrugs. “He said to come in early every morning and double check things were in order because it was going to be a big week.”

A big week?

“That’s it?” I scowl. “There was nothing else?”

Nothing about how I’ve been ostracized?

“He suggested I keep an eye on you. He mentioned you might be pissed.”

“Smart man,” I snip. “You might want to remind him that being kept in the dark doesn’t work well for me. I won’t stand for it.”

“No?” He cocks his hip against Allison’s desk. “Should I tell him you plan on doing something stupid?”

“Of course not,” I seethe. “But I want answers. We had a deal.”

I text Remy again.

Me

Call me.

After five minutes, the status doesn’t change from delivered.

I call him. It goes straight to voicemail. Each call every hour on the hour thereafter has the same outcome.

I spend the in between moments embalming a grandmother of five who passed from an aneurysm. Lunch goes by. The afternoon hours stretch. Allison and Ivy give me their usual farewells at closing time, and I still remain there, my annoyance at Remy growing, my paranoia returning to the amped levels I rode before he agreed to grant me transparency.

I sleep in the break room. Then curse a blue streak when I wake the next morning without the Grim Reaper making an appearance.

I call his apartment building, but the concierge won’t put me through. And nobody picks up when I dial the number for Smoke & Mirrors.

I don’t know what else to do.

I can’t bring myself to talk to my dad about it because that would mean informing him of my updated agreement, and his health is temperamental enough due to the chemo without adding stress to the mix.

It’s by sheer coincidence that I’m still at work two hours after closing the following Monday evening when the sound of a car pulls into the parking lot.

I yank off my face shield and mask and rush from my prep room. I cross the reception, catching a tiny glimpse of an unfamiliar black sports car as it drives into the parking lot.

I shove through the front door, trying to ignore how unprofessional it is to leave Mr. Armistead splayed on my prep bench as I jog around to the back of the building, my plastic clothes shield rustling between my legs.

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