Page 11 of Grim
Occasionally awe. But never peace. Peace is earned, not granted.
And this one continues ranting and employing projective phone technology.
Pity.
“The next time someone decides to pull me out of a meeting for something so frivolous—” she begins again.
I sigh. Loudly. “You were giving a PowerPoint on quarterly projections. You’ll forgive me if I don’t hold a vigil.”
She freezes. Her head turns slowly, like a broken doll, eyes narrowing. “A lot is riding on that pitch.”
“And now you’re dead,” I reply dryly. “Which, if I may, slightly outweighs the importance of your Q4 pitch.”
Her mouth opens and closes, resembling a fish out of water, like she’s trying to remember how to breathe in a world where the rules have changed without her permission.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not dead, you cretin.”
Name:Katherine Sinclair
Age:54
Occupation:Media executive
Time of Death:Four minutes and seventeen seconds ago
Cause:Sudden cerebral aneurysm while micromanaging a meeting and eating a turkey sandwich
It’s shocking how many times turkey accompanies a death.
I don’t need the file really. I know her type. They come through all the time—tightly wound, high-achieving, over-caffeinated mortals who thought legacy was something they could brute-force into permanence.
And yet here she is. Already halfway to translucent.
She’s pacing. Well, not pacing—her feet make no sound, and she leaves no mark—but she performs theideaof pacing like a windup toy let loose on a countertop.
While every case istechnicallyunique, I’ve watched the denial cycle play out through so many faces that it’s become background noise. Still, I’ll give her some credit—this one manages to lace her denial with such pure, undiluted rage that it almost makes me nostalgic.
Almost.
“I assure you, Ms. Sinclair, you are most certainly dead,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall, hoping she’ll get the hint. “Now, are you prepared to come with me so we can begin your intake process? Your caseworker in AfterLife Processing, or ALP, is waiting to help you get assigned and settled into your new reality in the OtherWorld. Or are we planning to spend the rest of your final minutes playing corporate charades?”
She stiffens like I insulted her stock portfolio. Her eyes flare with fresh indignation, dark with the kind of contempt only executives and reality TV judges can properly conjure. “I can’t be dead. I have too much to do.”
Ah. The classic.Everyone’s too important to die. As if mortality consults their calendars.
“Listen, ma’am—”
“Ma’am?!” she barks, eyes snapping like a hinge about to break. “Oh, I don’t think so. You’re not going to sweet-talk me into anything, Mr. Men’s Suit Barn. Who is your supervisor?”
Suit Barn? This is a double-breasted, custom-tailored Cifonelli work of art.
I suppress a smirk. “I answer directly to the division head, but I promise you there is nothing my boss can do for you that I cannot. Including keeping you from haunting the sixteenth floor of your office building forever like a boardroom poltergeist.”
Her lips part in protest, but I hold up a single hand.
“Do you know what happens if you don’t make adecision soon?” I glance at the clock on the wall for her benefit again. “Time is unforgiving, Katherine. She waits for no one.”
Her brow twitches.
