Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.
~ Marie Curie
After dropping Brianna and her car off at home, Steven took his time walking back to Dennis’s place. He needed to think before diving back into the research stacks.
The last twelve hours had been more bizarre than he’d been accustomed to. Stealing a body from the funeral home, helping set up a secret burial, and hearing Brianna tell him she had conversations with the dead—and they talked back.
She’d certainly thrown him for a loop. He’d presumed she was seeing someone else, not the dead. Or maybe she had some dark secret crime in her past that prevented her from opening up to people? But the big secrecy was talking to ghosts and seeing them? Every person had quirks and oddities.
If he worked in a funeral home, he’d probably be convinced he saw and spoke with dead people, too. Especially since she’d grown up with a family who ran a mortuary.
At least she didn’t act emotionally unstable or burst into tears at dinner because she’d gone thirty calories over her daily limit. Talking to the dead and maybe hearing them? He could handle this.
Cars whizzed past as he walked down Drayton Street toward Dennis’s house. When he reached the Oglethorpe red light, he waited for the walk signal and entered the crosswalk.
He took two steps. A navy BMW slammed its brakes, stopping inches from his thigh. The car’s wheels shrieked to a stop and left skid marks smoking on the pavement. What the hell?
“The light’s red, dumb ass!” Steven patted his legs, arms, chest, and other areas to make sure all body parts remained where they should. What kind of idiot speeds down the historic district streets, anyhow? Unless the driver had a sudden seizure, the jerk had no excuse being behind the wheel of a car.
Slowly, the BMW’s tinted window slid down. Holy shit. It was Begley.
“Morning, Steven. You’re not hurt, are you?”
Steven clenched his fists and stormed over to Begley’s car door. “Not a chance. Did you not see the crosswalk? Savannah pedestrians have the right-of-way, as I’m sure you know.” Asshole.
“Yes, and as I’m sure you’re aware, helping Brianna perform illegal acts is also a crime.”
Steven’s shoulders tensed. To not let on, he leaned into the window. “I haven’t done anything illegal, but if you don’t watch where you’re driving, you’ll be the one having to answer to the cops.”
Begley let out a low, rumbling chuckle—an eerie sound from such a corrupt man. “You let me worry about the cops. You just take care of yourself, and have a good day now.”
Before Steven could come up with some classic retort, the light turned green and Begley sped away. Damn it. The man was now trying to run him down on public Savannah streets?
Steven’s heartbeat still raced. This had to end. He needed to step up his game, find a way to contact the feds, or maybe the press in another city. Somehow, Begley had to be stopped. How did the bastard even know—or did he—about them stealing the body? Or was Begley just fishing for some kind of information? Would he go after Brianna next?
Steven pulled out his cell and dialed Brianna’s number. No answer, just voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. Be on the lookout for Begley. The bastard just tried to run me over. I know you’re at work, so you’re safe, but let’s meet up later.”
He snapped the phone shut. At least she would be safe at work. He hoped.
When Steven crossed Chippewa Square, right around the corner from Dennis’s place, he decided some fresh air without Begley around would do him good. He sat on the square’s bench, under the rustling oaks and memorial statues, and took a deep breath.
Home wasn’t as bad as he remembered, with the exception of people like Begley. Steven liked the grid layout, the lush green squares, each with individual history and landmarks.
Even this place, Chippewa Square, was famous. He traced his fingers across the wooden bench seat. Locals and tourists alike came to see the place where Tom Hanks told his stories in the movie Forrest Gump. After filming wrapped, the official bench had been moved to the museum, but people still walked the square to see its location.
When Steven thought about it, Forrest Gump footage was spliced and edited to make an entertaining film, but none of those 1950’s clips really included Forrest. It wasn’t real, but it didn’t hurt anyone.
Brianna talked to ghosts, and she claimed they talked back. But she wasn’t crazy, and she wasn’t harming anyone. And considering she’d spent a year in a psych ward when she was sixteen, she’d turned out more normal than expected. He couldn’t imagine what all those needles, doctors, beige rooms, and padded walls would do to someone, especially a teenage girl.
She’s a survivor.
He was determined to survive too.
Together, they had a better chance.
* * *
At nine that morning, Brianna arrived at work. This was going to be a long day. She’d been awake and functioning since 5:00 a.m.
Begley’s BMW was parked outside, but he wasn’t in his car. Why would he be here? Another meeting with Edwin to discuss illegal operations, perhaps?
When she went inside, she stopped short and almost fumbled forward. Begley sat at the front desk examining several files.
“Excuse me? What are you doing?” she asked. He had no business being here, much less going through Margie’s desk.
His fingers touched the file folder tabs, and he stroked them like petting a cat. “Checking on some paperwork. Don’t worry. Edwin and I have an understanding about when I’m permitted to be here.”
What kind of understanding? Begley checking the files to ensure anyone he’d killed wound up with the proper—meaning forged—cremation authorizations? Begley sure wasn’t hiding his intentions. Did he think she was stupid?
“Begley, I’m not so sure you should be going through Margie’s desk.”
He slicked his hair back with his hands. In the dim reception area, he resembled a used-car salesman. He’d fit the part perfectly if he’d kept his sunglasses on inside.
“Don’t you worry your Yankee head about anything. Edwin and I go way back.”
Of his connection to Edwin, Brianna had no doubt. She rested her arms on the reception desk, pretending to be social but paying attention to which files he looked through.
Begley fidgeted for a few minutes. He obviously knew she was analyzing his every move. Finally, he shut the drawer. “I’ll leave you to your work. Any bodies in today?”
You already know the answer. Why are you asking me?
“No, things are slow. I’ve been catching up on paperwork.”
He nodded. “Can I ask you something off-the-cuff?”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Sure.” As long as you leave after my answer.
“Do you like working with the dead? How does one choose this profession?”
She shrugged. It wasn’t an unusual question. She’d heard it numerous times throughout her career. “I saw how helpful the mortuary arts could be.”
“I’m sure you’re quite the expert,” he said. “But why a cosmetologist? Why not a funeral director? Edwin can’t run this place forever, you know.”
In Begley’s sick and twisted way, he was feeling her out, wondering if she would become part of their illegal scheme. Nausea swirled in her stomach. She had to force out the words without throwing up.
“I’ve enjoyed learning the ins and outs of the business, but I like cosmetology. I get to see the immediate fruits of my labor.”
Begley nodded. “Makes sense.” He chuckled—she hated his muddled laughter—and said, “And I suppose you’ve always got job security. People do keep dying. It can’t be avoided.”
If you keep killing them, that’s true.
“The stability in my work isn’t as important as the chance to help others, sending the dead off in a respectful fashion.”
How anyone could think the funeral home business was only about profit and not about helping humanity was beyond her comprehension. Sure, every business needed to make a profit, but most of the time, those who entered the business had a desire to comfort others.
“I like my job,” she said. “I guess I should get to work.” Besides, she didn’t want to talk with him any longer than she had to, for professionalism’s sake.
Begley strode to the door. “Well, you have yourself a good day now.”
His stupid farewell line always felt like a warning. Laced inside a polite voice, decorated by a charming smile with bleached teeth, his words chilled her down to her bones. She felt something ominous, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was the queasy-green sky before the tornado.
* * *
After guzzling two cups of coffee at lunch, Brianna returned to Restful Oaks for the afternoon stretch. One more body to go before she could go home and sleep.
Setting her purse down, she checked her cell for any messages or texts. Damn, the battery had died. She’d been too preoccupied last night with Riordan’s body to think of charging it. Oh well, she’d check messages later.
Back in the preparation room, she massaged skin foundation onto Martha McCauley, an endearing old lady who’d collected hundreds of clocks in her lifetime. Not many people plan their burial—most don’t want to think about morbid things, other than maybe buying a plot.
Martha had been one of the few who organized everything in advance. When Brianna arrived in Savannah, Edwin had taken her to Martha’s house to sign the final paperwork. That had been Brianna’s first taste of the South—funeral homes making house calls when the client couldn’t make it to the office.
“I’m sorry to see your time ended, Martha,” she said. “But I’ll take great care of you, like you wanted.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Brianna’s stomach clenched, and she jumped inches off the floor before finally catching her breath. Martha’s semitransparent form moved about the room, smiling and watching Brianna’s handiwork.
“Will I ever get used to the way the dead suddenly appear?”
“Of course,” Martha said. “One can get used to anything.”
“True.” She finished the lipstick, the final touch. “What’s going to happen to all those clocks in your house? You had at least forty—”
“Sixty-three, dear,” Martha said with absolute pride and certainty. “My grandson will inherit them. You liked all my clocks?”
“Yes.” Brianna wouldn’t forget the moment every clock went off at the top of the hour. With at least ten in each room—cuckoo clocks, mantel clocks, and a dozen other kinds—the chimes created a one-of-a-kind sound.
“Time is life,” Martha said. “My house was a living testament of that.”
The little old lady was the sweetest Brianna had ever encountered. She didn’t want to overstep her bounds by asking questions, but she had to ask at least one.
“What if you spend all your time trying to help something, or someone, and you fail anyway?”
Martha’s hazel eyes sparkled. “Goals can be hard to reach, but don’t ever lose hope, dear.” She pointed to the clock and smiled. “Minutes are going to pass regardless of what we do. With a little faith, you can do great things.”
Brianna swallowed hard. “That’s what Declan always told me, to have more faith.”
“I know, dear. Quite a charmer, he is.”
Wait. What?
“Have you...did you see my brother?”
Martha’s form faded until there was no substance left, only the sweet smell of talcum powder. “Please, come back. Tell me—”
“Who on Earth are you talking to?” Edwin asked.
How long had he been standing there? She tucked her hair behind her ears, composing herself. Crap.
“I...um...”
“Never mind. Come to my office when you’re done here. We need to have a little chat.”
She narrowed her eyes. A little chat? Edwin had made a career out of speaking formerly to families, grieving widows, and young children. He never spoke in slang. What could he possibly want to have a little chat about?
“Give me a few minutes here.”
“Fine, just make it soon.” He left, and the room fell silent—except for the panic storming through her brain.