I turned to see Angel, my thirteen-year-old investigator. Or at least he’d died when he was thirteen.

“I thought you were on assignment.” I glanced at Reyes to make sure he was okay with Angel shirking his duties. His attention had been dragged to a shortage of corn tortillas by Valerie.

“I am, and it’s great and all, but damn. That was hot. I almost came, and I’m dead.”

I glowered at him. Now was not the time. “What are you doing here?”

He raised his palms in surrender. “Just updating the boss.”

“Why?” I asked, softening my voice. “Who are you watching?”

He leaned close enough for me to see the peach fuzz on his face. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you, and since you’re a god and all, well, you see my dilemma, belleza.”

Damn. So close.

15

I miss being able to slam the phone down in anger.

Violently pressing END CALL just isn’t the same.

—MEME

That afternoon, I interviewed several of Emery Adams’s friends and coworkers. They all had glowing reports. She was a hard worker. She was professional and smart and kind. She looked out for the little guy. She didn’t take shit from doctors.

From everything I could tell, Emery was the most liked woman in the history of mankind. Then who would want to kill her? Somebody either hated her or her passing was a random act of violence. She was the squeakiest clean I’d ever encountered. Besides, perhaps, Cookie Kowalski.

But nobody was liked by all. It was a statistical impossibility. She was a hospital administrator, for goodness’ sake. They had to make some pretty tough decisions. Someone had a beef with her, but was it enough of one to kill her?

The more people I talked to, the more it appeared to be random. Could Emery really have been viciously attacked for no reason?

I gave up on interviewing her colleagues and went in search of the supposed scene of the crime. While Emery lived at the foot of the Sandias, her car had been found miles from there off Highway 313 between Albuquerque and Bernalillo, in a deserted field.

The land was privately owned, but the owners had been on a cruise when Emery was killed. Were still on a cruise, hitting beaches up and down the coast of South America. Tons of Facebook updates confirmed it.

So, what looked even worse for Lyle Fiske, the man I was fighting tooth and nail to prove innocent, was that he’d found her car in the rural area, even though he’d explained that she’d had a tracking app installed on her phone.

Cookie called while I was stuck on I-25. Traffic crept forward, and I realized I could be there awhile. Thank God for Cheez-Its, though only He knew how long they’d been in the back of Misery.

“Hey, Cook,” I said through half a mouth of crackers.

“Hey back. Are you feeling better?”

“You mean since I almost kissed a guy to death? Peachy.”

“I’m sorry, hon.”

“I really need to learn to control my shit, but how can I control it if I’m not really even sure what my shit is capable of? It was one thing to be a god from my very own dimension, but it’s like those rules don’t apply here. Here, I’m the grim reaper. Why would anybody in their right mind give someone like me this kind of power?”

She laughed, but I got the feeling she agreed with me.

“So, what’s up, chicken butt?”

“You aren’t going to like it,” she said.

“Do I ever?”

“A reporter from KOAT wants to do a story on you.”

“Like, a real one?”

“It could be KRQE. I’m so bad with letters.”

“But he’s legit?”

“Then again, what’s that other one? No, wait, that’s KOB. Only three letters. I’m pretty sure there were four.”

“Okay, but—”

“And there’s always KASA.”

“Cook,” I said, launching an intervention. “Come back to me. Is this guy a real reporter?”

“Apparently. He’s left three messages.”

“Sounds legit to me. So, he wants an interview, huh? Is it because of my reaper status?”

“No.”

“Is it because I’m a god from another dimension?”

“No.”

“Is it because I solve so many cases for APD, they want to give me an award and a year’s supply of oven cleaner?”

“No. It’s because of the video.”

I heard the “told you so” dripping from her voice. Or that could’ve been my guilty conscience projecting for dismissing the video so carelessly. “That old thing? I was, like, twenty-two.”

“I told him you weren’t available for comment.”

“Oh, hell, yeah. We’re sounding more and more important all the time, Cook. More celebrity-like. Next thing you know, we’ll get special seating at the Macaroni Grill.”

“You think?” she asked, intrigued. “I love the Macaroni Grill.”

I snorted. “Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, and that bakery in the creepy picture? It was owned in the thirties by a Mae Dyson. Mae L. Dyson, to be exact. Ring any bells?”

“Not even a Tinker.”

“Okay, I’ll keep digging.”

“Thanks. And I’m at the scene of a violent crime.”

“Where? What happened?”

“No, no. It’s nothing. I just came to check out the scene where they found Emery’s car.”

“Oh. Okay.” She breathed a sigh of relief.

The area was starkly beautiful with gnarled trees and tall grasses. I saw the crime scene tape and headed that way, careening over bumps and through ravines. Thank goodness Misery was made for that shit. “It’s beautiful out here.”

“Oh, I know. My dad used to go hunting in that area before Albuquerque expanded as much as it did. Hey, what did you find out about Ms. Adams?”

“As squeaky as my dishes after Reyes washes them.”

“I figured. I can’t find anything. She’s never filed a police report. Never filed a grievance at work. Never filed a report of any kind while at college. Had perfect attendance and perfect grades. The word Stepford comes to mind.”

“And yet,” I said, “according to her grandfather, her dad was not the best. I don’t doubt that he loved her, but he has some serious issues. And a horrendous head for business. Cost his father a lot of money and him his marriage.”