Page 19 of Dead Serious with Benefits
“Yes,” he said simply, tucking his phone away more quickly than he had taken it out.
“Sore subject?” I wondered.
“No,” he said with a shrug. “Just my family.”
Interesting. Not a sore subject but clearly one he wasn’t willing to get into, at least not with me. “Fair enough. If you take me up on my offer, ask aboutmyfamily. That will probably be more interesting.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Because your family looks happy.”
“Ah.”
“Feel free to stick around as long as you’d like,” I told him with a smile as I backed up. “I should probably work on calming the rest of them down and moving them out. Probably through the fire exit to ensure they stay out of the way. My night is about to get so much more interesting.”
“You seem to use interesting for everything, good and bad.”
“Because interesting doesn’t have a positive or negative quality.”
He cocked his head but said nothing, leaning back against the wall and letting me walk away to start herding the crowd of tweaked-out, drunken idiots I had invited into my home. I braced myself for what was to come, sparing a look back as I began to get people out. He never moved from his spot the whole time, not until someone came to get the woman in my shower.
As if he were standing guard, maybe even an honor guard.
ARLO
A wince twisted my face as my knee slammed into the table, sending a flare of pain firing up my leg, and made me hiss in a breath. Grumbling, I rubbed the knee and reached up to grab the lamp that had been jostled from where it was chained to the table. It sent shafts of light wildly in every direction before I steadied it.
Looking down at the coroner’s report, I adjusted myself carefully to avoid smashing my knee again. The number of times I’d whacked my knee on that leg should have made me aware of its existence, yet at least every other day, I did it. My adoptive mother, Matilda, always said there were people with an internal rhythm that helped them navigate the world with a grace and smoothness that others could only envy.
While I had to admit there was a certain truth to it, I had always been less accident-prone than others, but that didn’t count for this, particularly cursed table leg. There was a stool in my apartment that had the same curse. No matter where I put that thing, it got in my way. It had happened enough that I didn’t think it was unreasonable to wonder if it had developed sufficient sentience to get in my way purposefully. That wasn’t possible, of course, but when you had been sent sprawling forthe third time in a week by the same object, you couldn’t help but be suspicious…and superstitious.
A soft thump drew my attention before I could return to the report, and I looked around the room. It was the same room as before, sterile in its flat, polished concrete floor, which made it easy to clean in case of a mess. The cabinets were metal and glass for the same reason; some held the chemicals we needed to prepare the bodies for their services, and others held clothing, smocks, and tools. The plastic strips hanging between this room and the room with the tables where we prepared the bodies flapped gently, but that wasn’t new; the AC that kept the basement cool was to blame.
It was the part of the building most people would never see and, quite frankly, would never want to. People preferred their illusions when it came to death. They wanted the show put on for them in the viewing rooms rather than the ugly reality of what happened down here. They didn’t want to see the bodies sliced open, their organs removed, the work done to keep the unseeing eyes closed or to keep their mouths from gaping open when they were put on display.
Not that I blamed them; it was only human, after all. It wasn’t our compassion or speech that made us human; it was our willingness...no, ourneedto create and believe illusions. There were animals capable of ritual, but none did it quite like humans, or as often. Ask anyone about the illusions of others, and they’d point them out. Yet when forced to deal with their own illusions, people were blind and unwilling to see past their own biases. Maybe deep down, we all suspected the illusions made us human, or at the very least kept us sane.
Reality didn’t play much of a part in most people’s lives. Sure, they made plans when possible and tried to avoid the pitfalls. That constant hope and attempt to fight fate were illusions of their own, but they were the sort of illusions that allowed peopleto get through their lives without succumbing to madness or ennui.
So let them avoid the nip and the tuck, the slicing and bagging that came with turning the body of their loved ones into another illusion. One where some might tell themselves the deceased is sleeping or at least mention that they look peaceful. Let them pretend the bodies aren’t drained and filled with chemicals to prevent the stink of rot from filling the room. Let them imagine their loved one had died and been slid into the coffin, their hair flawless, their makeup covering up the pallor of death, and all the dirty little secrets of preparation locked away in sterile, cold rooms.
It was necessary for their grief and their sanity.
I sighed when I heard another soft scrape. “Mitchell, if you would stop trying to prank me, that would be wonderful.”
Another sigh came from the shadows, and the younger man came out of the back storerooms with a scowl. “I was hoping to freak you out.”
“I think it’s safe to assume you failed,” I told him. “Is that the only reason you’re lurking in the shadows, hoping to dole out a cheap scare? Halloween must be your favorite holiday.”
“Actually, I’m fond of the Fourth,” he said as he rolled one of the chairs forward and dropped into it. “Also, how do you manage to speak like you’re judging the hell out of me but your tone says you’re not?”
“One of my younger brothers asked me something very similar. I had no answer for him, and I don’t have one for you. You have to admit it would have been a cheap scare.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s part of the fun.”
“Perhaps you should try it on someone more superstitious.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never been down here, alone, in this creepy ass place, and never once been freaked out? Not even once?”
