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Shelby Pilbara had spent the last two years hiding the pain. But it got harder every day. Some mornings she couldn’t even get out of bed. She stretched out, clutching her gut, hoping that applied pressure might help. It didn’t. Even the pain meds Dr. Southern prescribed did precious little. She’d learned to separate her mind from her body, her outward expression from what she felt inside. The world saw a mask, a happy façade she chose to present the world.
Inside, her body was failing her, worse and worse each day.
And the pain was excruciating.
She felt humiliated, but there was nothing she could do about it. No whining! That was Momma’s Rule No. 1.
Momma would be disappointed today.
She thought getting some fresh air might help, but it didn’t. Griffith Park was wasted on someone who felt this bad and couldn’t possibly appreciate it. She spread out across a park bench, curled in a fetal ball, trying not to cry, trying not to feel the inferno blazing within her. Unsuccessfully.
Someone came over to see if she was all right. Not a police officer, not a concerned citizen. A child. A small girl, maybe nine. Pigtails. Jumper. Stuffed panda.
“Are you okay, lady?”
Shelby took a deep breath. “Just need a minute.”
“Do you want me to rub your tummy? That’s what my daddy does when I’m sick.”
“I don't think it’s going to work today.”
“Maybe a Slurpee? Slurpees make everything better.”
“Just—” She drew in her breath, trying to keep it all inside. “I’ll be fine. Just need a minute.”
“Would you like to hold Maurice?”
Shelby opened one eye, just a little. The girl held a plush panda. Probably something she won or got from the gift shop.
“Hold her for a minute. You’ll feel better after.”
“Thank you, but—”
“Tammy! Tammy, come back right this minute!”
Her mother, no doubt, dragged the girl—and Maurice—away from this demented homeless-looking person on the park bench. Shelby didn’t blame her. A mother’s first and foremost job is to protect her child, and right now, Shelby did not look like someone you wanted to be your child’s new playmate.
A relief, really. She was not in a conversational mood. And yet, after the girl left, Shelby found she actually missed her. How pathetic was that? Missing someone you’d known for about ten seconds.
She was falling apart.
Which was a nice way of saying she was dying.
She spent more than half an hour on the bench until she felt able to move again. She took the bus home, but it dropped her at a stop about half a mile away. Normally, that would be no problem. But today, she was not sure she could make the journey.
But she did. Momma was right. Skip the whining, grit your teeth, do what needs to be done. Her feet kept moving, one step at a time.
Dr. Southern had warned her there would be days like this. But help was on the way. The doctor made no guarantees but felt certain good news would arrive—before it was too late.
Shelby pulled herself forward, slowly. Her arms were strong even if her legs and everything else below her waist were weak.
She made it home. She opened the front door and stepped inside.
There was no explaining the comfort that came from being in your own space. This room, modest though it was, was hers. She had decorated it to her taste, which leaned toward brightly colored decorative items from Target’s Home Decor department. Maybe others thought it was tacky, but to her it was paradise.
Why her? she asked for the millionth time. What did she do to deserve this? She was a good person. She was the healthiest eater she knew. She exercised regularly. No one else in her family had ever had this condition. It made no sense, no rhyme or reason, completely undeserved.
But it was reality. Her reality. If something didn’t change fast, she’d be staring death right in the face.
She plopped down into a nearby chair. Television? No. She didn’t feel like dealing with twelve different streaming services and figuring out which of ten thousand shows she wanted to watch. Maybe a little music. Chopin usually worked wonders at times like this. Maybe a string quartet. Nothing soothed the soul like being completely enraptured by a piece of music that—
Her head twitched. Did she hear something?
It sounded like it came from the kitchen.
Her heart pounded, even worse than it had before. Her fingertips clenched the padded chair.
Was it her imagination?
She heard another sound. Then another.
Footsteps.
Not her imagination.
Summoning all her strength, she shoved herself out of the chair.
The blade swung around barely a nanosecond behind her, plunging into the back of the chair, missing her by inches.
She jumped out of the way, pivoting as she did.
Barely five feet away, someone stood in a black robe and hood. The Grim Reaper. Death.
When she talked about staring death in the face, she thought she was being metaphorical. But here he was, live and in person, determined to kill her. Was she hallucinating?
No, Death was definitely in the room with her.
Problem was, she wasn’t ready to die. She hadn’t fought this hard, this long, to die like the pre-credits victim in a Scream movie.
A grim voice emerged from the hood. “It will be simpler if you don’t resist. You cannot escape.” The Reaper raised a huge scythe, as if preparing to strike the final blow.
“Forgive me if I don’t go quietly.”
“Every mortal life must end at the appointed time.”
“And what makes you think my time has come?”
“That’s my job.” The Reaper swung the scythe. She managed to scoot out of the way but couldn’t help but notice that it was sleek and shiny. Razor-sharp. Honed.
Think! she told herself. What did people do in horror movies, the ones who survived?
They screamed, of course.
So she screamed. As loud and long as she could. Not so much out of fright as the hope someone might hear. Where was her phone? She needed to call 911. She raced up the stairs. Maybe he couldn’t move that fast in all that regalia. She tore into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
Her heartbeat pounded like the two-note “Tudum” at the start of a Netflix show. She could feel sweat dripping down her face. Just when you think your life can’t get any worse....
Only when she was behind a closed door, pressing her body against it, did she realize how stupid she’d been. She should’ve run to the kitchen, and from there, into the alley behind the house. Now she was trapped. No doors on the second floor.
Only windows.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled her dresser in front of the door. Probably wouldn’t stop the Reaper for long. But it might give her time to get a window open.
She flipped the lock. It was a long way down to the ground. She might hurt herself, twist an ankle or something, but that was better than being dead.
She pulled on the window, but she couldn’t get it to budge. Had someone painted over this, without raising the window? It seemed glued down. Maybe if she—
The sudden noise made her jump and scream, both at once. Someone slammed against the door so hard it jostled the dresser.
Only a matter of time.
She put all her weight behind her weakened legs, using them to shove the window open. She heard the paint crack. Just a little, but she was making progress.
More pounding at the door. Her jewelry case spilled off the edge of the dresser, clattering as it hit the floor.
Come on, she thought, glaring at the window. Open!
This time the Reaper hit the door so hard the entire room reverberated. The mirror atop the dresser cracked.
She saw a gloved hand snake through the crack in the door.
She pushed with all her might. The window finally broke away. Creaking and groaning, she managed to get it up...
Just as the gloved hand wrapped around her throat.
She tried to cry out, but she couldn’t. The Reaper pinched her larynx, making it difficult to breath. Impossible to shout.
She could whisper. Barely. “Why...me? What did I do?”
The reply was the most chilling she could imagine. “Nothing.”
“Then—?”
“No fault. But you’re on the list.”
“List? What?”
“Shh. You don’t understand. And I’m not going to explain it to you.” He pinched her throat even harder and she felt her consciousness ebbing.
“You’re...killing me.”
“Sadly, that is my role in this drama. You’re the next-to-last one. After Monday, my assignment will be complete.”
Shelby felt the blackness surrounding her. “Who...gives instructions...to Death?”
The Reaper leaned in, applying the final fatal pressure. “Someone worse.”