Page 3 of The Girl Who Inherits the Dead

The clerk grabs an old-fashioned ring of keys, then gestures for Delina to follow her deeper into the post office, past brass and mahogany boxes. “We thought it weird when she didn’t come by last summer.”

“Oh, she totally died,” Delina says, still syrupy sweet. “If I had known about this, I would have stopped by sooner.”

The clerk eyes her. “My condolences?”

“I didn’t know her,” Delina continues. “So this is a bit weird, you know?”

“Guess so,” the Clerk says, voice now wary. “Here.”

It’s a normal looking PO Box; one in a long row of other boxes, with nothing but a number to indicate any difference, and now Delina’s stomach flip flops all over the place as the clerk deftly unlocks it, pulling out packet after packet of papers.

“Here, this should be it,” the clerk says, and Delina’s actually holding something from her bio-mother in her hands, something that’s not just a check printed by a bank, before theClerk puts another letter on top of it. “She said to have you open this one first.”

It’s a clean envelope, brilliantly white and expensive looking, with her name printed neatly on the front. Just her name, not her father’s, not the bank’s, just her.

“Okay,” Delina responds, unsteady. “Anything else?”

It feels like there should be more, if this was as important for her bio-mother to set up and maintain.

“The box is pre-paid for the next ten years. Do you want to keep it open?” the Clerk asks, and Delina just shrugs, then turns on the heel of her expensive gym shoes and strides out of the post office.

The sun slaps her in the face, it always does, but she doesn’t stop until she’s in her car and can dump all the paperwork in the passenger's seat, her arms shaking.

One package is a neatly compact will, with more properties and bank accounts listed than she can read, her eyes blurring together. One package is a textbook—maybe—in a language she can’t read, beautifully bound in embossed leather with gold lettering.

And then…the envelope with her name on it.

Instead of opening it right away, she cradles it in her hands. There’s little indentations from the force of the pen, like her mother wrote with some fierceness. Like she pressed against the envelope with all of her might, so that even if the ink faded, the shape of her name would still be there.

Living with Maison for the last five years made it unavoidable to not notice the paper, so she runs her fingers over it. It’s high quality, the sort of paper that would give Maison a fit that it was used for something so mundane as an envelope.

Careful to not rip it, she slides her nail under the wax seal, popping it open and setting it aside. Maison’ll be able to paintover it, make some sort of art with it. It’s an old habit at this point, to collect fine bits of paper so he can use them.

Inside is a key, simple and normal with a red ribbon tied on it, and a single, folded up piece of paper, of much lesser quality. Printer paper, if she had to guess, the flimsy sort, and the words on it are scribbled with much less care, the blue ink skipping over the lines.

She can’t make herself read it, not immediately.

She tucks the key into her purse, a bit unnerved.

At the top, there’s a messy sort of symbol, scrawled in cheap blue pen, like someone tried to write all the letters of one word on top of each other, and she peers at it, bringing the paper up to her face, but nothing makes sense.

“Weird,” she mumbles, before she brushes her thumb over the symbol, as if that could get her to understand it.

With a snap, a static shock arcs from the paper and into her thumb, sending pins and needles through her hand, and she jerks back, the letter falling harmlessly onto her lap.

And before her very eyes, the scribbled-on symbol fades, until all that is left is the indentations from the pen.

“What the fuck?” Delina says aloud, staring down at the paper, shaking out her hand before examining her thumb. It’s fine, her hand is fine, her manicure still untouched, but her thumb feels like it’s been coated with a thick dust.

Careful, she sets the letter down in the passenger seat and starts the car. She’s gonna need coffee for this.

After gettingher espresso milkshake and Maison’s overly fancy caramel monstrosity of a coffee, she idles her car back in theparking lot, staring at the letter, still half unfolded in the seat next to her.

It’s tilted enough towards her that she can read the first line.

Dearest Delina,my daughter,

“Okay,”Delina says, nervy, then picks it back up. No static shock, nothing. Just a normal piece of paper, she’s just going a bit nuts from the anticipation.

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