Page 12 of Grim
“A decision will be made for you. And that decision involves you spending the rest of eternity here. You linger. Pointlessly. No function, no impact on the world around you. You become a ceaseless, passive observer of a story that has moved on without you. Now, I can make you cross over. My boss would prefer it actually.” I think about the Death-issued reaper blade in my pocket and the carnage caused in the past by its edge. “But, Kat, call me old-fashioned. I think when faced with your final free act, I should do your legacy the honor of allowing you make the call. For better or, as it’s looking in your case, for worse.”
A flicker of uncertainty cuts through her fury, but she masks it with practiced bravado.
“Okay, listen,” she tries again, voice shifting gears, angling into the slippery silk of the bargaining phase. “You might not know this, but I’m a very important person. Lots of people depend on me. I’ve got teams, clients, investments. I just turned fifty, so clearly, there’s some sort of misunderstanding happening here.”
I lift a brow, dry as dust. “Fifty-fouractually. Naughty fib, Ms. Sinclair.”
She flinches.
I press the advantage, voice smooth as a scalpel. “Your daughter just started her freshman year at NYU. You missed her last call, by the way. Your ex-husband remarried a yoga instructor, who owns a gluten-free bakery and has very flexible morals. And you? You buried yourself so deep in quarterly forecasts and executive strategy meetings that when your body hit the ground, no one even heard the thud for a solid three minutes.”
Her mouth falls open.
“In case you’re wondering,” I add casually, “that was long enough for your assistant to send two instant messages, reschedule your calendar, and wonder aloud if she’d get a promotion now.”
Silence swells like a tide.
And in that stillness, the final layers of her ego beginto splinter. Not enough to break her, not yet. But it’s starting. They always do, right around the metaphorical moment that the window is about to seal and they realize there is no turning back.
Her voice, when it returns, is smaller. “So, that’s it then? That’s how I go?”
I shrug, straightening the collar of my suit jacket. “You could have gone in your sleep. You could have gone holding your daughter’s hand. You went screaming about a slide deck. I don’t make the rules. I just collect and cross.”
She blinks and shakes her head.
“Window’s closing,” I state.
She’ll either choose to come with me—accept the ending and begin what comes next. Or she’ll spend the rest of her afterlife screaming at her own reflection in the glass of an elevator no one rides anymore.
“The choice is yours, Katherine, but remember, the clock ticks down the same, and once it reaches zero, there’s no turning back.”
I drink in the look on her face like a sommelier savoring a rare vintage. Shock, disbelief, outrage—it’s all there, pouring from her wide eyes.
“Howdareyou speak so disgustingly about my life? My—my legacy!” she snaps, and the air itself seems to tremble with her indignation.
“Respectfully, Ms. Sinclair,” I sigh, ready to move this along, “get over yourself.”
She opens her mouth again, stunned.
“We all go in the end,” I continue smoothly. “Some with grace. Some kicking and screaming in fake heels that aren’t fooling anyone. You, so far, are doing neither with any real flair.”
Her shocked silence is gratifying, if only for a short time.
“But look on the bright side—crossing over doesn’t have to be your finale. In fact, if you come with me, you’ll continue your existence in the OtherWorld. And while I can’t tell you exactly what it will be for you, it’ll be better scenery than this beige purgatory of recycled air and motivational posters.”
I gesture to the office around us, an echo of heronce-treasured kingdom now slowly losing its definition as her presence fades.
“So, what do you say?” I ask, voice lilting with theatrical charm. “Ready to shuffle off this mortal coil and get out of this glorified filing cabinet?”
Her lips twitch, and for a moment, I think she might laugh. But instead, she exhales a soft, crumbling breath. “I can’t leave,” she murmurs. “I have shows in production. Teams that need me. I have stories left to tell. So much still inside me. It can’t end like this. It’s too—” Her voice cracks. “It’s too sad.”
Ah. Depression. Right on cue. They always hit this phase hard when the denial starts to lose its sheen.
I try to give her descent the courtesy of my full attention—weepy revelations do so love an audience—but the subtle buzz from my Tombstone Phone cuts through the moment like the blade in my pocket. I glance down, expecting a passive-aggressive reminder about paperwork from one of the interns.
But no. It’s Big D himself.
Big D: What is taking you so long? Check in immediately. —Big D
