Page 28 of The Reluctant Reaper
A chandelier with artificial candles hung over the middle of the room, and there were the de rigueur overstuffed chairs (two, upholstered in forest green, with matching, uncomfortable throw pillows) but no end tables. Her mother felt they would look awkward in a round room, comparing them to skin tags.
She went to the wardrobe, opened it, observed the few outfits she’d left behind on her last visit, two—no, three—wait, five?—years ago, and wondered what the hell she was thinking when she’d paired cream-colored clogs with baby blue bike shorts.
There’d be time enough to burn her old clothes later; what she needed was the bathroom mirror. That room, too, was unchanged; the marble sink still sported a faint mint-colored smear from her green-hair phase, and the drawer of her vanity was stuffed with eyeshadow palettes in various shades of violet.Why did I keep buying the same basic colors over and over? A fortune! A fortune on mauve!She rummaged, then scowled down at the tube of Milani’s Pink Frost lipstick.Why? It made me look like I just guzzled a Pepto-Bismol smoothie.
She made a mental note to have a long soak in the whirlpool tub, then opened the cupboard beneath the sink and pulled out two towels. Then she opened the medicine cabinet: Tums, Visine, ibuprofen, a box of Band-Aids, a nail clipper, deodorant, Jo Malone’s Sweet Milk perfume. And a box of L’Oreal Paris Excellence permanent hair color in Dark Neutral Brown. Not that she needed it, given the stash she’d lugged from Minnesota. But still: good to know.
She checked the expiration date, replaced it with a newer box, and got to work.
ChapterFourteen
All the bad news hit at once: Breakfast was savory oatmeal, death gods were in attendance, La Croix was en route, and Penny had just stabbed her husband in the throat.
“Don’t make that face,” her mother coaxed. “Try it.”
“I’m making that facebecauseI’ve tried it. Brown sugar and cream, Mom. That’s what belongs in oatmeal.”
The kitchen could have been out of a high-end restaurant, huge and all shining chrome and gleaming counters, a spotless floor and meticulously organized pantry. Brass pans and handwoven baskets hanging overhead. An industrial-sized fridge and freezer. Three stoves with six burners each. Sinks deep enough to bathe a calf.
“Maaaaaybe blueberries,” Amara allowed. “Or strawberries in season. That’s what belongs in oatmeal. Kale and a fried egg and mushrooms, not so much.”
“Amara doesn’t speak for me,” Gray said, on her heels as always. He was the one person she didn’t mind almost tripping over. “Bring on the weeds and fungus.” He was barefoot, his hair still damp from the shower, sporting one of several pairs of knee-length cargo shorts and a long-sleeved polo shirt (sunshine yellow this time).
How does he never get sick?she marveled.Not even a head cold?She’d asked him, once. He’d just laughed at her and pointed out that she never got sick, either. Except for the migraines.
“Everything smells so good, Hilly. I can’t wait to—Jesus Christ!”
“He’ll walk it off,” Penny snapped. She’d been straddling her husband’s corpse and now yanked the knife out of his larynx and stood, her insteps pressed against each side of his ribcage. She showed her teeth in a grin and extended a hand. “Lovely to see you after all this time, Amara, but who is your friend? I confess I’m surprised to see you— Child, what are you doing?”
“Calling nine-one-one!” Gray screamed. “What the hell else would I be doing?”
“This is my friend, Gray. He’s, um.”
“gak.”
“Why am I the only one freaking out right now?”
“agh ack.”
Gray saw their bemused expressions, cleared his throat, and continued in a calmer tone, “And FYI, just to throw that out there, it wouldn’t have worked anyway. I can’t get a signal.”
“And won’t. Or at least not consistently, and not for very long,” Amara said. “I warned you last night, there’s a reason the homestead is so isolated.”
“Yeah, but I prayed you were exaggerating or that your folks took a few hours sometime in the last decade and upgraded.”
“Ahem.”
“So if we can’t call anyone, should we, um, put him somewhere? I mean, it’s still a crime scene, even though I’m guessing it’s a crime scene the cops will never hear about. Not sure how I feel about that...”
“Where do you suggest we put him?” Penny asked, seeming honestly interested in the reply. Like most of her ilk, she hadn’t aged in any noticeable way. She could still pull off cropped sweaters and leggings and an eyebrow piercing. And she’d always been petite—not much taller than five feet—and slender and fine-boned. The kind of woman who looked like she could break if you glared at her too hard.
Her concessions to the modern world were chopping her titian hair (it really was the best word to describe her riotous red waves) severely short on the sides and disdaining a bra. She looked like some people’s idea of a forest fairy, if forest fairies could rock a buzzcut and routinely stabbed their spouses. “I should like to hear your suggestions.”
“Ahem.”
Gray blinked. “Oh. I dunno, drag him out of the kitchen? And into... a ditch? No, that’s cold. Literally and figuratively.”
“Also unnecessary,” Amara replied, “as you’ll see in a minute. Do you want a gloppy pile of oatmeal loaded with mushrooms and kale?”
