Page 10 of A Step You Shouldn't Take

“I thought we were going with dogs?”

“Turns out that Marnie’s fiancé got bitten by a shih-tzu when he was six, and he’s been terrified of dogs ever since. Apparently he’s got a scar and everything.”

“So she wants ponies? Can they carry flowers? What happens if one of them poops in the aisle?”

“I guess we also need to order a shovel.”

See? My life was a freaking disaster.

***

And the disaster only got more disastrous after lunch on Wednesday. One day since I’d woken up in the hospital, and I was trying to stay positive. At least I’d gotten plenty of exercise with the four trips I’d already made to Starbucks, even if the caffeine hadn’t made a dent in my tiredness. Turned out getting drugged and nearly murdered plays havoc with a girl’s sleep patterns.

“Kim, you’ve got a visitor.” Kayla poked her head around my office door. She sat out front at the reception desk while I shared a room with Annie. We also had the meeting area for clients, a tiny kitchenette with a bathroom to the side, and a storage closet stuffed with everything from emergency shoes to superglue. “He’s a cop.”

Officer Leopold? I put down the dragon I was busy building out of paper clips and hurried out to meet him, only to stop short because this definitely wasn’t the same policeman who’d visited me in the hospital. No, this guy was thirty-ish with dark-blond hair, a strong jaw, and eyes the colour of my ex-husband’s expensive cognac.

He held out a hand and flashed a smile. “Sergeant Wyatt Banks.”

I longed to wipe my sweaty palm on my skirt, but that would have been worse than just shaking his hand.

“Kimberly Jennings.”

“Have you got a moment? It’s to do with the incident the other night.”

Well, what else would it be about? I always stuck to the speed limits, I never got parking tickets, and I’d only ever killed one person but that was years ago and a total accident.

Joey Dean.

I didn’t even feel guilty about his death. Well, not after I got over my initial shock and thought rationally. Joey Dean had been a murderer. He’d pushed his girlfriend down the stairs in my freaking house, then claimed it was an accident and gotten away with it. How did I know that? Because Tiffany had whined about it every damn morning when I came down for breakfast.

Yes, yes, I know I shouldn’t have bought a house with ghosts in it, but it only had two, and it was a foreclosure so I got a really good deal. And do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a place without spirits? The murdered hung around for years. Centuries even. At least Tiffany’s and Margaret’s deaths were relatively recent, so they understood modern life and we could have a relatively pleasant conversation. I’d toured one property with three native Americans standing semi-naked in the kitchen, and they just yelled non-stop in a language I couldn’t understand. I got the gist of it from their waved gestures—do your duty, slacker—but in their case, it was impossible, even if I’d been willing.

As a member of the Electi, I’d been put on earth to get justice for those killed by another. Their souls got trapped, tethered to the spot where they died or sometimes an item like a car or bus or airplane if it was big enough, as if their cosmic energy or whatever made up their essence somehow became intertwined with that of the object they’d died closest to. Those who died of natural causes or self-inflicted accidents passed straight over to the other side for recycling.

Why were some souls stuck? Well, because they were supposed to assist me and my fellow Electi. Our job was to track down the murderers and dispatch their black souls into oblivion, thereby freeing the tethered. If we didn’t, the criminals got reincarnated while their poor victims hung around in limbo forever.

The trouble was, whoever created us hadn’t banked on pesky things like laws and prisons, so I couldn’t just go around killing people even if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t. Not only did I hate the sight of blood, I just wasn’t cut out to be a deadly avenger. I liked Netflix and chill, not high kicks and kill.

Apart from Joey Dean, obviously.

But Sergeant Wyatt Banks didn’t know that, so I pasted on a smile and invited him through to my office.

“Kayla, would you mind picking up a couple of Americanos—”

Banks cut in. “I won’t be staying long.”

“Don’t worry, they’re both for me.” I turned back to Kayla. “Plus anything Sergeant Banks would like.”

She grinned at him. “An espresso, perhaps? Since you’re in a hurry.”

“Okay, you’ve persuaded me.”

In my office, I waved Banks into one of the visitors’ chairs opposite my desk, where he looked a little uncomfortable amongst all the flowers and silver accents. I worked long hours and I wanted to feel at home, so I surrounded myself with lace and candles and delicate floral scents in an attempt to distract myself from the darker side of my life. Plus the brides-to-be loved it.

“Do you have any news?” I asked. He wouldn’t have come otherwise, would he?

“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s not what you want to hear.”

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