Page 23 of Finders Reapers

I knew her, but I didn’tknowher.

Pink hair, E-girl blush, and a gothic harness outfit that put whatever I wore to shame (pre-death and post-death).

@Pomerella. One of the up-and-coming streamers that I always saw on my FYP page. I hadn’t watched her videos, but I had seen her at Vidcon and E3.

She danced up to Cody and threw her arms around him, planting a kiss on his waiting lips. Her leg popped behind her like she was the star of an old-fashioned movie.

I had been dead less than twenty-four hours.

It was like I never existed.

Cody was kissing another girl.

My hand gripped the wire fence behind me. Metal creaked and yawned, and Fletcher grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me forward before I could damage the barrier further.

Weakass chicken wire.

“No,” I protested as he started to lead me away. “I want to say something. I’m going to march over there, and I’m going—”

Fletcher placed his hands on my shoulders and led me away from the crowd. I was spitting like a cat.

“Let’s get ice cream.” He suggested.

“Let’s kick a YouTuber in the balls!” I hissed back, craning my neck to try and catch another glimpse of the betraying rat-bag. “Cazzo! Stronzo!” I kept cursing in Italian as we moved further away from the crosswalk and towards the entrance to the Bellagio.

Someone shot us a concerned look.

Fletcher gave them a commiserating smile. “Shereallydoesn’t want to get ice cream.”

“Fuck your ice cream,Figlio di puttana!” I snarled. I was definitely coming back to myself if the Italian was coming through—I didn’t know much, but Nonna had taught me the good stuff.

Fletcher gave the stranger a look as if to say,see what I mean?

Fletcher led me through the Bellagio lobby, hissing and muttering, like a cat that had been dunked in a bathtub.

He took us through the VIP lounge, and no one even batted an eyelid. One of the concierges nodded and welcomed him with a smile.

Fletcher produced a special key card, and it took us right to the 34thfloor.

As soon as the door opened, we were greeted by the sight of a pool table and wood paneling. A private bar lined one wall, and I caught a glimpse of one of the other rooms, with a 86 inch television and a sectional that took up the majority of the space in the center.

The room looked absolutely massive, bathed in sunlight with floor-to-ceiling windows to the left, which I would bet looked directly down at the fountains.

I had money. Both growing up (courtesy of my father) and as an adult, because of my job. Even I knew that you could only get a two-bedroom suite at the Bellagio. They simply didn’t offer more. Sure, they had a few rooms with more than one bed, butnevermore than two bedrooms.

Judging by the number of doors, I was willing to bet that this suite took up the whole floor.

My mouth was dry from hanging open.

“Who are you people?” I asked slowly. “I don’t think even Donald Trump could get a room like this.”

Fletcher gave me a look. “Of course not. He’d stay at the Trump International.” He squinted.

I nodded and brushed my hands down the front of my shirt. “I didn’t know why I said Trump,” I admitted. “Maybe I should have said Bezos.”

Fletcher snickered. “Demon.”

“What?”

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