Melissa’s pupils were already wide, and she showed no reaction at all. Bryn didn’t feel any sign of a pulse, no matter how hard she pressed.

It seemed to take forever, but it probably didn’t; the receptionist came running, then Mr. Fairview. Mrs. Granberry’s stony calm finally shattered; she began screaming and had to be taken away. Eventually, there was an ambulance, and people in uniform, and Bryn was shuffled off to the back to stand helplessly as they loaded Melissa up on a gurney and wheeled her away.

It all seemed like some surreal nightmare. And at the same time, it was all weirdly familiar. She’d seen a fair number of loaded gurneys, after all.

The receptionist, Lucy, helped her wash up in the men’s room, chattering all the while about how she’d once found a man who’d shot himself in a viewing room, and wasn’t it funny how that didn’t happen more often in this kind of business, where people were running on adrenaline and grief?

Bryn didn’t really feel much. She supposed it was shock more than anything else; she’d seen plenty of dead and dying before, but not like this. Not in such antiseptic surroundings. Someone—Mr. Fairview?—brought her a nice hand-knitted afghan and sat her in one of the viewing rooms, pressed a glass of whiskey in her hands, and left her alone.

Bryn couldn’t get it out of her head—the girl’s dark, pleading eyes, her sobs, her guilt. She sipped the whiskey but didn’t really taste it, even though she hated the stuff, and then all of a sudden it came through to her with absolute, crystalline clarity.

Melissa Granberry was going nowhere but to the morgue, and eventually she’d end up downstairs in the prep room, just like her father.

I could have done something. I could have stopped it. She was just a kid.

Bryn put the whiskey down on the side table and began to cry in helpless, silent sobs.

Mr. Fairview was right. The tissues were in just the right place when she needed them.

Chapter 2

“I’ve got to hand it to you, honey,” said Lucy several hours later. They’d been interviewed by the police, Bryn had been escorted to the locker room to shower and change, and then there had been more whiskey, because Lucy had said she needed it. Bryn supposed it did make things better, or at least less connected to what she was feeling. “That was one hell of a bad first day. Worst I’ve ever seen. Good news is, it can only go up from here, right?”

“Right,” Bryn said. She felt comfortably numb now— not peaceful, just not feeling much of anything. She especially could not feel hope for a better tomorrow.

“Then I think it’s time for you to go on home. Hot bath, more wine, maybe get a massage.” Lucy wheeled her chair back from the reception desk and pulled a Givenchy purse from the bottom drawer. She was a gorgeous woman with flawless dark cocoa skin, and she was generously curved in ways that shouldn’t have looked good but did, especially the way she dressed. Bryn wondered how much time she spent every day on the carefully lacquered updo of her hair. Probably more time than Bryn spent all week, added together, getting her own ready. “You going to be all right on your own this evening?”

“I … Sure.” In truth, Bryn didn’t really know, but she wanted to be okay. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Fairview, finish up some paperwork. And I’m supposed to introduce myself to Mr. Watson in the prep room.”

“Oh, don’t let Mr. Fairview catch you calling it that. It’s preparation room, always.” Lucy’s friendly expression took on a sharper edge. “My advice is, if you have to say hi to Fast Freddy, do it tomorrow. And whenever you go down there, you watch it with him. That man is trouble; I told Lincoln that from the day he was hired on. We used to have a great restoration man, a real artist. His name was Vikesh, but he moved off to Arizona. Now we got Fast Freddy. I have to tell you, I am not impressed. I saw Mrs. Salzman’s viewing last week—I swear, it looked like she was on her way out to pick up sailors at the dock. No class, that man.”

Bryn tried for a smile. “I’m pretty sure I’ve met worse.”

“You may think so, but he’s a slimy little shit, I don’t mind telling you.” Lucy gazed at her a moment, clearly undecided. “You got your car here, honey?”

“I took the bus. But it’s okay; the last one runs in a couple of hours. I don’t want to go home just yet anyway. I need to walk off the Scotch a little.”

“Well, okay. And don’t you worry about tomorrow. One thing about this business—it’s steady. Every day, you get different sad people with the same sad stories. Sooner or later, you get used to it.” Lucy reached over and patted her hand, a quick, impersonal little gesture. “You take care, Bryn. I like you. Hope you stick around.”

The office felt really empty with Lucy gone. Bryn walked the hushed paneled hallways back to her office and found that Mr. Fairview had left the Granberry folder neatly in the center of her desk. She signed all the paperwork, filled out the cost sheets, and made a list of to-do items before setting it aside.

Fairview had also left a sticky note on the folder that read, Don’t forget to brief Freddy downstairs about the arrangements for Mr. Granberry; he needs to know as soon as possible.

It was the last thing she had to do. Easy enough to pick up the phone—it had a clearly marked extension labeled PREPARATION ROOM—but she felt that she ought to get the lay of the land down there. She was already having the worst day of her life…. She might as well get the slimy Mr. Watson out of the way, if the introduction was going to come.

That way, tomorrow there would be nothing she had left to dread.

There were two realities in all funeral homes—the public space, which was all beautifully appointed and quiet and comforting, and the prep areas, which were medical and sterile and cold. The stairs going down were sort of a transition between the two—still carpeted, but with an industrial metal railing and an institutional fluorescent light fixture overhead. The bottom floor was all Formica, easily cleaned. There was a freight elevator in the back, and down the hall seemed to be storage and rolled-down loading-dock doors. Bryn stopped outside the frosted-glass door of the prep room. She breathed shallowly; the smell of embalming fluids always made her a little queasy at first, until she adjusted to it. The ever-present smell of decay was just the cherry on top. She knocked on the door, a hesitant rap of knuckles. She could see shadows moving inside.

“Come in,” someone said, and she entered. There were four spotlessly clean stainless-steel preparation tables in the room, each with all the pumps and tubing necessary to the embalming process. Only one was occupied at the moment—Mr. Granberry, fat as a frog. He really wasn’t that fat, Bryn thought. And he had a nice face. She was mildly religious, and she hoped that wherever Mr. Granberry was, he could comfort his daughter now. Poor Melissa.

Standing over Mr. Granberry’s corpse, massaging fluids through his tissues, was a handsome guy only a little older than Bryn…. Golden hair, creamy skin, big blue eyes, and a devastating smile. Except for what he was doing at the moment, he was completely smoking hot.

The smile put her on guard. It was just a little too predatory.

“Hey,” he said, jerking his chin up in welcome. “Bryn, right? Just a sec. Got to finish this; I’m almost done. He’s pinking up okay, don’t you think?”

She nodded, not sure she knew what to say, except, “You’re Mr. Watson?”

“Fast Freddy, they call me,” he said, and winked. “Don‘t let it bother you. Everybody in this industry’s got a nickname, right?”

“Do they? I don’t think I do,” she said. She felt faintly ill, and she wasn’t sure coming down here was a good idea, given the day she’d had. Her head was spinning a little from the drinks.

“I think you got one today,” he said. “Double Trouble Davis.”

“Oh. You heard?”

“About the girl? Of course I heard. It only looks like a cave down here. I don’t actually live in one.” He shook his head, and she expected the normal platitudes—what a shame, or she must have been so distraught. “What a dumb-ass bitch.”

Bryn blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Look, well-adjusted people don’t go offing themselves messily in funeral home restrooms. If she wants to take the easy way out, fine. I’m not standing in her way, but if she was going to do it, the least she could have done was do it at her own home, not our place of business. Now we’re the ones stuck cleaning it up. Trust me. She was a selfish little bitch.”

It wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it that made her muscles go tense and quiet; Freddy looked ripe, but there was something rotten in the relish he took in dissing the dead girl. It was like biting into a juicy red apple and getting a mouthful of worms. “Her name was Melissa. And she was only eighteen.”

“Old enough to vote, fuck, and know better,” Freddy said, and shrugged. “Like I said, she was a selfish bitch. End of story. So, you got any orders on Mr. Granberry, here?”

Freddy’s callousness reminded her of some of the soldiers she’d served with, the ones who’d lost all feelings of humanity, especially for the Iraqis, whom they saw as walking meat ready for body bags.

She’d tried to avoid those people. Hadn’t always been successful. And here was another one, thrown right in her path. “Yes,” she said, grateful for the opportunity to deliver the paperwork and escape. She handed over the folder, which he took in his latex-gloved left hand as he continued his gentle massage of the former Mr. Granberry with his right, working the embalming fluid through his chest. “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

“Oh, man, you’re going to dump and run? Not cool, Double Trouble. The least you can do is help me out, here. I’ve been stuck all alone in the dead room for days; I’m starved for the company of a pretty woman.” He flashed that brilliant smile at her again. “You’ve had enough of all this shit, I’ll bet. Tell you what. Instead of me giving you the grand tour of the freezers, how about going out for a drink, or preferably lots of drinks? Could be your lucky night.” With one last squeeze of Mr. Granberry’s puffy biceps, Freddy stepped back and peeled off his blue gloves, which he three-pointed into a biohazard bin. His plastic apron followed, leaving him in a lab coat with neatly pressed jeans showing beneath, and some shoes that Bryn was almost sure were Kenneth Cole, or at least that expensive. “Unless you want to spend the evening with Mr. Gran, here. I mean, he’s not much of a talker, but he’s working a nice after-death stiffy right now. You want to see?”