Page 19 of The Grim, Me, and The Reaper Makes Three

A pained sound rumbled in his chest. “No,” Atticus rasped, shaking his head.

“She did,” William hissed, a bit of anger bleeding back into his voice. “Now look me in the eye again and tell me that you are certain she did not want us.”

“We have a job to do, William. Responsibilities that don’t allow for lasting entanglements.”

William barked out a harsh laugh. “You are so full of shit, Atti. That job we have? With all of those pesky responsibilities you like to talk about? We sit at desks. We review memos. We check boxes on fuckingperformance reviews. It is a job we can walk away from whenever we please. You know that and I know that. We have overstayed the typical tenure of Grim Reaper by decades, Atti. Marjorie and Jeremiah are both fully trained and waiting in the wings. Waiting for you to decide that you can give up your precious job and settle into an eternity of anonymity.”

Atticus felt his upper lip curl, a familiar, ruthless need to defend himself rising in his chest. “That is not what this is about,” he snarled.

“Then tell me!” William’s shout echoed off of the obscenely high ceilings, the sound waves getting lost in the millions of nooks and crannies, the rooms they never used, the spaces that remained cold and empty. “Tell me why you refuse to give this up. I know that you hate this fucking house. I know that you are not particularly invested in the work of managing this infinite and eternal place. So tell me, Atti. What is it?”

Icy cold fingers constricted around his throat. How was Atticus supposed to explain that without the work, without being the Reaper to William’s Grim, there would be nothing but the two of them? Nothing but Atticus with all of his shortcomings and William with his seemingly endless light and spirit. How was he supposed to tell him that he was terrified at the thought of snuffing out that light with his own darkness and melancholy? How was he, Atticus, supposed to make William happy?

William backed away from him, and Atticus wanted to reach for him, to tug him into his embrace and plant reassuring kisses on every bit of bare skin he could find.

“Coward,” William said, golden eyes boring into Atticus’ own. “You are a coward, Atticus.”

Atticus could do nothing but watch him walk away, damned by his own silence.

Atticus’ brogues clicked on the marble floors as he walked into the Central Office.

Immediately people jumped into action, rising from their desks and asking how they could assist him.

“Most recent files,” he commanded, and within seconds a stack of folders was placed in his hand.

He flipped through them quickly. His mind was sharp, focused, his purpose distilled and refined in the wake of his discussion with William.

When he found what he was looking for, he handed the rest of the stack to the closest employee, and disappeared on the spot.

Rather than bother with walking, Atticus opted to transport directly into the middle of Abimbola’s office. Just like the rest of the Afterworld consultant’s offices, it had a small seating area, a low table displaying materials for each of the Regions, and a desk tucked into a corner.

The man who sat at the desk looked up, blinked his bright eyes once, and then returned to his paperwork. “Boss,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Atticus slapped the open file down on the desk. “I need to know where you sent the woman.”

Abimbola leaned forward, and then glanced up, flashing his broad, white smile at him. “Tatiana. A very nice girl. Very nice.”

Atticus narrowed his eyes.

“You know I can’t tell you that, boss,” Abimbola said carefully, his brown fingers tapping on the edge of the desk.

“I know that.”

“So why are you here?”

Atticus frowned. “I have made an error and I need to fix it.”

“She did seem sad, boss.” Atticus glanced up and caught Abimbola’s small smile. “As though maybe she did not want to go anywhere after all.”

Atticus felt his heart plummet, seeming to land somewhere below his stomach. With a nod to Abimbola, he disappeared again.

The Afterworld Department of Resource Allocation was a low-ceilinged, wide room that was divided up into a maze of cubicles and walls of filing cabinets. Employees scurried about like ants, constantly in motion.

Atticus walked right up to the machine from which a near constant stream of applications emerged, printed in fine black print on thick, white paper. He grabbed one, skimmed the applicant, and tossed it aside. As he was scanning the next one, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, an employee come and retrieve the discarded application.Good, he thought. Their work would carry on in spite of his presence.

Time blurred as he scanned document after document. At some point an employee had placed a chair behind him, and he collapsed, his hands never ceasing their motions — grab, scan, discard, repeat.

What if there was a version of their eternity where it wasn’t simply Atticus and William?What if he wasn’t alone in loving his beautiful pup, in luring his happiness to the surface? What if Atticus could open his heart to another?

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