Page 31 of Finders Reapers

“Why?”

Jamal gave me a funny look. “Because he’s a licensed therapist.”

I slanted a look towards Maddox. “I really don’t think he’ll talk to me.”

We walked away from the conference room. Fletcher stood to the side, eying up the water cooler. Rome leaned on the reception desk and appeared to be in deep conversation with the receptionist, both in a world of their own.

“What do we do now?” I whispered; the lobby was so shiny and pristine that it almost felt like a crime to talk too loudly.

Jamal shrugged. “Have a few drinks. Watch some Netflix. Wake up again tomorrow and do it all over again.”

“What if I don’t want to do that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

Before Jamal could answer, someone clucked their tongue at me. “Yes. You! Dead girl!” A feminine voice called out, brusque with a hint of a Russian accent similar to Rome's.

I glanced over my shoulder and found Rome and the receptionist trying to get my attention.

I almost pointed at myself and asked, ‘who, me?’. Rome had given the impression that I was beneath his notice, and the receptionist seemed to be following Rome’s head.

A girl knows when another girl doesn’t like them.

I forced a benign smile on my face. “Yes?”

The receptionist did not smile but made an exasperated face. “You are the one that died at the Paris, yes?”

I rolled my eyes heavenward. “I don’t remember how I died,” I told her, keeping my gaze fixed to the ceiling.

“You drowned in the pool. Everyone saw the video. You jumped.” The receptionist continued.

I finally looked at her. I said nothing.

“Sasha,” Rome warned. “Don’t bother. There’s nothing upstairs.” He tapped his forehead.

I continued to stare blankly.

I had just watched eight people die, murdered in cold blood, by a closeted teenager with a rifle.

I had died.

My boyfriend had cheated on me.

I was staying at the Bellagio in one of their coveted suites (yay) with four men I didn’t know. (Boo).

My own body was chilling in a morgue, and I was wearing the skin of a pasty Irish girl that couldn’t break five foot two if she wore heels.

I’d had enough.

My Nonna always said that I had inherited her Italian temper.

“What is your problem?” I demanded, stepping forward. One hand on my hip and the other gesturing wildly. “I don’t know you. You’re just some bitch behind a desk. Giving me the stink eye for absolutely no reason. Listen, have some compassion. This isn’t my world. This isn’t my scene. This office block looks like they should be delivering botox instead of operating as doorways to the underworld,” I snarled, my speech delving into an incoherent rant. “I need people to be a bit moreunderstandinginstead of just expecting me to be peachy with the fact I fucking died!”

My chest heaved, and my eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Sasha, the receptionist, tsked. “I simply wanted to ask if you had seen the news.” She said without changing her facial expression. “Channel 5 was talking about your death—they mentioned that the police were opening a homicide investigation.”

Chapter 5

It was three o'clock in the morning, and the bass thumped through the walls of my bedroom. The night had seemed to last forever, but in reality, we had left for the club at midnight and returned home just before two.

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