Chapter 1

The toe tag on the decapitated body read: IF FOUND, CALL (512)576-3038, so fifteen-year-old Del pulled out her iPhone.

The burning Texas sun played spotlight for the headless body starring center stage.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Del said, circling the shirtless decaying corpse. She maintained a perimeter outside the buzzing flies and fluid soaked ground but breathed easier knowing it wouldn’t answer. “I’ve seen other dead people, you know.”

Seen. Created. Collected. Same difference.

Del spied a turkey vulture gliding in a copycat pattern around the body. “Get the hell outta here! He’s mine!” she fumed. She snatched a piece of gray limestone from the dirt and hurled the rock skyward. The irritated vulture voiced its displeasure before settling into the field’s lone oak tree. For now, Del owned her prize uncontested. Dead bodies were a one-way ticket to life in jail for most, not a bloody precursor to salvation.

She sneered at the corpse. “He’d eat you if I let him, but you’re my entrance fee.” Del flipped her head toward the oak masquerading as a kickstand for her ten-speed bike. “And them.”

Nervous excitement drove Del to chew her last unbroken nail to a jagged nub before dialing. She figured most people would be afraid to call, but they weren’t in her situation. How many people needed to find a magical cure for cancer, like yesterday?

What if no one answered?

The option to call the cops had long since passed. They would canvas the field. Talking her way out of one dead body seemed plausible, but not a half-dozen. While her underground fort kept them out of sight, their putrid scent would undoubtedly betray her.

“Yeah?” Gruff and tumble on the other end, but welcoming in an odd way. “You got Pez.” Del strained to hear him over the hum of the idling truck engine behind the man’s voice.

“I found something I think belongs to you.” Del opted not to slow play her hand. Time wasn’t an ally.

“I’m listening,” Pez said.

“A body. Male. Fat and goopy. Like, ‘loved Taco Tuesday’ fat.” Del noted no blood around the corpse’s wounds. “And no head.” She performed a quick pirouette to verify she didn’t miss it in the open field.

Nope. No head. No smell either. Maybe the perfect guy.

“Should I be freaking out?” Del asked, dragging a sweaty palm across her Deadpool t-shirt. Silence swept over the abandoned field. She dug her teeth into her sun-chapped bottom lip.

“No need to freak out. We’ll take care of everything. Can you tell me where you are?” Pez asked.

A background voice chimed in behind Pez, loud and filled with subtle rage. “Did you put your phone number on a dead body?”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I’d never give out my number, Dermit,” Pez paused. “This is your phone.”

Del laughed so hard the jet-black iPhone slipped from her hands. It bounced harmlessly into the white milky substance oozing from the body. She hesitated but relented and plucked it from the goo.

“Five-second rule,” she muttered, wiping the phone clean on the hip of her jeans shorts before putting it back to her ear.

“Just find out!” The background voice faded, but his anger resonated through the phone.

“Relax. You’re gonna burst a blood vessel.” Pez cleared his throat. “Still there, kid?”

“Kid? I’m not the one losing their dead bodies,” Del scoffed. “This thing’s got no head, and I think it may be smarter than you.”

“Touche,” Pez chuckled. “I like your spirit.”

“And you owe me a new pair of shorts,” Del’s greedy spirit took control of her mouth.

“Liked your spirit may be more accurate. How ’bout you text me your location,” he said, before lowering his voice, “and if you keep this between us, I’ll make sure you can buy a whole new ensemble to match some new shorts.”

Del’s fingertips danced nervously across the touch screen tapping out her location.

“A magic fountain of life,” she muttered. “Dad better be right.” The stories were entertaining and all, but what Del needed more was hope.

His words ran through her head:

It’s like those trays by the convenience store cash register.

Give a penny. Take a penny.

But instead, the fountain treats lives as pennies.

Give a life. Take a life.

Del amassed enough bodies for six lifetimes, twice what she needed. If these guys coming weren’t who she thought they were, that number would have to increase to eight.

Chapter 2

“You’re the first headless body I’ve seen, though. I’ll give you that.” Del relented her guardian’s prowl and knelt near the body. “If you truly want to impress me, you’d answer.”

Ears or no ears, the dead made the best listeners.

“Can I tell you a secret?” She cupped her hands around her mouth and leaned in close. “We’re not alone in this field.”

She pushed a pile of dirt over the “dude milk” as she referred to it. Dude milk seemed harmless compared to whatever name some scientist would label the white ooze. Maybe they’d name it after her. God, she hoped not. That’s not the way she wanted to be immortalized. There was a better way if one was inclined to believe the ramblings of a dying man.

The corners of her lips turned higher when she saw a clear spot close to the body. Del tossed a handful of dirt onto the corpse’s chest. The clump floated on the soggy flesh. She continued until his nipples became a buried treasure.

“Sorry, dude, not a fan of Moobs. You know, man-boobs.” Del leaned in closer and molded the dirt into a bikini. “Everyone’s going to be wearing one of these this summer. All natural, organic dirt bikini. The Dirtini. It practically sells itself!”

The digital readout on her iPhone read ten after three. More troubling was the eighteen-percent juice left on the battery. She rolled her eyes realizing she didn’t ask the guy how long it would take them to arrive.

“How come you don’t reek?” Del inhaled deeply. A few small particles of dust snaked deep into her nose. An epic sneeze evicted every bit of oxygen from her lungs. The force sent the loose pieces of the Dirtini flying in the opposite direction.

Clearing her throat, a light-headed Del sat back on her knees examining the random brown splotches on his otherwise bare chest. “Design flaw. We’ll need to work on that.” She moved her finger and thumb to her chin. “Why don’t you smell? The others smell.” Del flipped her head toward the oak tree. “Can’t get enough air fresheners to kill that stench. Can you believe I used roadkill to cover the smell? You’d be surprised how effective a splattered skunk carcass can be.”

Not a single cloud in the blue sky. Not one break from the sun. These were the hardest days to contain the lingering decay of death’s perfume. Her nose had grown immune to the skunk, but not to them. The human body simply wasn’t designed to tolerate that smell.

“When the doctors diagnosed Addie with Leukemia a second time three years ago, I swore I’d never let anything happen to her. A foolish promise, but as a twelve-year-old at the time, I didn’t know any better,” she sighed and returned her focus to the ground. “Two years later, no one had any answer as to why she wasn’t getting any better. I learned words like chemotherapy, metastasize, and hospice. She’d perk up when Dad came home from his business trips. He’s home so seldom and he’s a shell of his former self, but something about him being there made her better. She’d start struggling again a week after he left. I hated when he left, but he was doing everything he could to keep us in our family home and Addie with the best doctors.

Addie would get worse and worse and I’d get desperate. Desperate enough to, well—” Her hands found a stray stalk of hay and she peeled back the brittle layers. “—talk to headless corpses.

“Life is fragile. It’s tough to get ahead.” Del’s wide chocolate eyes challenged the expansive blue sky when she laughed. “See what I did there? Nothing? Man, you’re tough.” She wrinkled her nose. “Anyhow, my promise to cure her, my desperation, brought me this field. Our field. Addie’s and mine. Not yours and mine. I know it’s tough for you to follow on the account of no brain but try to stay with me.

“Dad’s always on the road on the account of us being broke due to Addie’s medical bills, but when he was home, he’d tell me and Addie stories of a fountain. A magic fountain. People of the fountain would travel the country searching for those who deserve its riches. When they found them, they would drop a dead body with a phone number attached. Only those strong with conviction would call.”

Del threw her hands in the air. “Don’t give me that look. Ain’t my rules. Find strong conviction or an evil heart.

“Anyhow, I convinced this boy Jason to build us a fort under that oak tree.” Del glanced where the man’s head should be and scoffed. “Bet nothing sounds funny to you these days.

“Found the only plot that didn’t have limestone fighting the shovel for every inch. Only had to sacrifice two squeezes of my boobs. Over the clothes of course. Boys are so easy to seduce. The internet is a goldmine of Youtube videos and articles on how to bag your man. I think I’ve watched or read them all.” Del winked at the body. “We planned intricate tunnels and a treehouse above, also courtesy of Youtube, but Jason wanted more than I was willing to give him to build a treehouse.”

Del pointed toward the tree. “I’d drag you up the hill and introduce you around, but you have friends coming. Friends more important than my friends, but together, I think we can make good on my promise to Addie.”

A white cargo van speckled in brown dust turned the corner at the top of the hill.

A smile lit up her face. “Speak of the Devil.”

If you believe the fountain is powered by evil spirits rather than good intentions.

Chapter 3

Pez and Dermit conferred out of earshot. Sparse words escaped their pointed conversation. Del gawked at the gargantuan men. She kept herself between the men and the tree, believing she could outrun them to her fort if things went south. Dad’s rambling stories aside, anyone willing to attach a phone number to a dead body feared nothing and was a threat to everything.

Dermit stood six foot five, about the same height as her dad, but without an ounce of fat on his body. Del could see every muscle outlined by his clothes worn a bit too tight. Pez towered four to five inches above Dermit. She spied a tangling dangling price tag on his waistline.

Tangling dangling.

A favorite phrase of Addie. Del needed the reminder to calm her nerves. She spent the last year surrounded by the dead and found herself unsure of how to act or whether to truly trust the living.

“Hey, Kid.” Dermit waved Del closer. Something about his voice melted her uncertainty. “We won’t hurt you.”

Del stepped closer but stayed out of arm’s reach. Even arms long as theirs.

“Thanks for the call.” Dermit scratched his head. His fingers were lost in his jet-black hair. Del stared, waiting for them to reappear. “We have no idea how this phone number ended up attached to this body, but we hate seeing a pretty girl like you havin’ to deal with such ugliness. I’m sure you don’t want to explain this to your old man.”

“Not an issue. He’s never around,” Del said.

“I’m sure he’s got his reason.” Dermit smirked. “How about we take care of this for you?”

“And give you a few dollars for your troubles.” Pez flashed a wad of bills.

Del stepped forward, grabbed the cash, stuffed it in her pocket, and retreated. “I don’t want the cash. I want your help.”

Tears of frustration filled Del’s eyes. There were easier ways to get money than this.

These guys need to be the answer of the question: how? How do I save Addie?

“Doin’ what?” Pez asked.

“Help me catch time in a jar.” Addie folded her fingers together and pleaded.

“Listen, we’ll take the body. No questions asked, but you ain’t makin’ a ton of sense. Let’s back up a moment.” Pez yanked an orange plastic rectangle with a cartoon skeleton head on top. His bulbous thumb eased back the head and a yellow candy protruded. He popped one, then another, and finally a third into his mouth. “Pez?” He extended his arm toward Del. Her eyes locked on the lemon candy. “I prefer orange myself, but the Valero station only had lemon and grape. No one likes grape.”

“Umm, sure.” Del pinched the candy between thumb and index finger and tossed it in her month. No sense worrying about taking candy from a stranger at this point.

Del peered close. She swore she saw two cuts on the side of Dermit’s nose. Almost as if he had four nostrils and extra skin. Or maybe fake skin.

Dermit ignored her and motioned to Pez. “Grab the shoulders. I’ll get the legs.”

Del circled the men, inspecting from every angle, but never getting too close in case she misjudged them.

“Hello? Ignored girl here.” Del waved her arms.

Pez popped three candies into his mouth and focused on Dermit. “Sure. Make me grab the gross part,” he scoffed. “Why is there an outline of dirt around his nipples?”

Dermit’s nostrils flared. “Would you just grab him.”

He lifted the corpse’s legs in the air before Pez shuffled around to the shoulders.

Pez resembled a grown-up version of Pigpen. On steroids. Lots of steroids. Maybe all the steroids.

She opted for a different attention grabbing strategy. The helpless girl card. It succeeded in getting Jason to build her a fort. Mark Mathias wrote her term paper on The Great Gatsby when she cried to him about Addie’s cancer. Effective, although she preferred strength to weakness.

A small amount of shame etched insults across Del’s confidence.

But desperate times.

Del twirled a strand of her strawberry blonde hair with her finger. She didn’t mind the dirt on her hands since she knew her mom would force her to wash her hair tonight. “After you big, strong guys are done with that icky thing, do you think maybe you could help me move something else before you go.”

She batted her brown eyes and twisted on her toe like so many women do in the movies to manipulate a man. Neither Pez nor Dermit seemed to notice her, so Del blinked faster. Her rapid eyelid movement changed her vision to a movie from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

“Dermit, I think the kid is having a seizure!” Pez dropped the corpse leaving Dermit pushing a headless plow across the hay field.

Del’s belief she could outrun the men abandoned her with Pez’s first steps. His gargantuan hands clasped her waifish arms before she could flinch.

“Aah!” Del screamed.

“It’s alright, kid. Relax,” Pez said, maintaining his grip and holding her steady.

“Your hands are freaking freezing.” Del attempted to withdraw both her arms. “Seriously, dude, they’re like ice.”

Pez released his grip and placed a hand on his cheek. “Feels normal to me.” He shrugged. Pez extended his hands. “Dermit, do my hands feel cold?”

Dermit slammed down the corpse’s legs. A puff of dust swirled around his feet. “Let’s just help her, so we can get out of here. I hate this heat,” Dermit mumbled as he walked past Pez. “And clearly, it’s getting to your mind.”

Del bounded up the hill. “I can’t wait to show you my fort.” Every few steps, she would jump left or hop right around the rotting monochromatic carcasses. Something surged through her body. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. “Watch out for the dead skunks,” she called back at the men lumbering behind her.

“Did you say dead skunks?” Pez shouted. “Got something perfect for that.” Del watched Pez fish a Pepe Le Pew candy dispenser from his pocket and toss the other to Dermit who squatted it away. “You’re loss.” Pez shrugged.

The men caught up to Del who was standing ten feet from the oak tree.

“So, what can we do for you?” Dermit asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“It’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you.” Del knelt and slid a rusted latch across the wooden door nestled horizontally across the ground. “My ex-boyfriend and I made this.” She grinned.

Pez pointed his footlong sausage fingers at the door in the ground. “Did he paint the pretty unicorn and rainbow as well?”

“He wishes,” Del giggled. “I did.” She paused, losing her smile in the breeze sweeping across the field. “For Addie, my sister. She loves unicorns. I don’t have the heart to tell her they aren’t real.”

Pez leaned over Dermit’s shoulder and chuckled as he whispered, “Well, not anymore.”

The wooden door groaned as Del struggled to flip it open, but she managed to force the hinges to comply with her wish. Dermit jumped back as the door banged a few inches from his toes.

“Sorry,” Del said. “I usually don’t come in this way, but you boys didn’t look svelte enough to slide through the secret tunnel.” She smiled on the inside for using such a grown-up word. Del gestured in the direction of a hump in the ground that most wouldn’t notice unless told.

Score one for the word of the day calendar.

Del hopped into her fort. Silence. No hospital machines beeping. No kids crying. No parents fighting. She spent more waking hours here than at home these days.

Jason may have been a dork, but the five by ten dirt walled room might serve as his legacy. Del wished it were more level, three feet deep in some parts and closer to four in others. Jason stopped digging when he hit limestone.

Addie had issues breathing if the doors were closed and the darkness reminded her too much of the MRI machines, so Del usually kept the doors open and build her Addie her own escape tunnel.

In case of a cave in.

Tears filled her eyes as she stared at the two pictures leaning against the south wall. Addie hadn’t visited since Del added the new decorations, ones she was eager to show Pez and Dermit.

Pez jumped into the fort and noticed Del looking at the pictures.

“Is that her? Your sister?” he asked.

Del nodded. “Addie. She’s the one you’re going to help me save.” She motioned to the photos. “That’s us riding the Tilt-o-Whirl at the State Fair and the other one,” Del pointed to a digital photo in a cheap plastic red and green frame. “That’s her in the hospital with Santa Claus. When it was her turn on his lap, the stupid girl told Santa to bring me a boyfriend so I wouldn’t be sad.” Del glanced at Pez. “I don’t think you’re what she had in mind.”

Dermit slid down and took inventory of the underground fort. “What in the blazes?”

Del scooted over on her knees and held up a rainbow emoji poop shaped pillow. “Like I said, rainbows and unicorns are Addie’s thing. Apparently, she thinks my bony butt is going to get bruised sitting on the hard ground. The girl refuses to acknowledge I’m twice her size.”

Dermit stepped forward and held up his open palms. “Kid, we’re cool with the pillow, but…what’s with the bodies?”

“Oh,” Del paused as a smile crept up her face. Orange embers lit in her brown eyes as she turned her neck so she could look over her shoulder at the pile of bodies scantily clad in torn clothing. “Them?”

“Daddy, why is Mommy crying? Did you make her sad again?”

Little Cammie startled her dad. He pushed his wife from the crux of his arm. Streaks of black mascara stained the sleeves of his polo.

“Cammie, honey, what are you doing out of bed?” His voice straddled the line of annoyance and anger.

Cammie snuck out of bed when Mommy’s sobbing soiled the quiet night. By her accounts, it wasn’t often, but she couldn’t recall the last time she slept a full night through.

Stuffed bear tucked in her mouth; she watched television from the second-floor overlook although she rarely understood the shows her parents watched from the first-floor couch, it made her feel grown up. Part of the family.

The good family.

Tonight was the first time Cammie ventured downstairs from her second floor perch since that night.

The bad family.

Her arm healed. Crooked for weeks, but the hospital said it would straighten in time. Dad said it would straighten faster if she’d mind her own business and stay in bed at night.

Cammie rubbed the jagged scar on her forearm where the bone poked through to the outside. The doctor gave it a name, but Cammie didn’t want to remember. She only wanted one thing.

“I wanna watch TV with you and Mommy.” Cammie bent her knee, twisted her foot on her toes, and batted her big blue eyes at her dad.

“It’s late, Cammie. We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to rest up.” Her dad nudged her with his open palms. “After some early morning fun, your Mom and I have a meeting. Miss Lily is gonna babysit. I know how much fun you two have together.”

Cammie stroked her stuffed pink teddy bear. “I need to make sure Mommy is okay.”

“I'm all right, Sweetie. Please go back to bed like your father asked,” Mom said through her Kleenex mustache.

“But why were you crying?”

“Just something from the movie.” Mom kept one eye on the screen.

Cammie stared at the fifty-inch screen as a boy placed his hand on a train window. She didn’t understand why her parents watched in black and white when the colors worked perfectly well.

“His mommy is going to be mad at him for getting fingerprints on the window.” Cammie remembered all the times her mother yelled at her for doing the same thing, “And now the girl is doing it on the other side of the window! Oh, they are going to be in so much trouble.”

Tears streamed from Mom’s cheek darkening the light brown pillow in her lap.

A moment later both the girl and the boy on television were crying and shouting words to each other through the window.

“Are you sad because they are getting handprints on the window, Mommy?” Cammie asked.

Mom wiped away the tears from her face and then inhaled what Cammie estimated to be about a gallon of snot, “No, Honey. They were best friends who realized they were in love with each other, but they waited too long to tell each other. He’s on a train about to leave to fight some bad guys and is probably going to die. Them putting their hands on the clear window like that is their way of telling each other they are soul mates and will be together forever in each other’s heart. It’s so beautiful.”

Dad gathered Cammie in his arms, “Alright Peanut, that’s enough love lessons for you tonight. Let’s get you back into bed, so your mother can finish her movie and her bottle of wine, and your dad can get some sleep of his own.”

“Does Mommy have a soul mate, Daddy?” Cammie rested her head on her father’s shoulder.

“I think so, Baby Doll.” Her dad squeezed her tight, “Maybe more than one, but she doesn’t realize it. I’ll be happy when she does. We’ll all be happy when she does.”

The second floor wasn’t as lonely now that her dad slept in the bedroom next to Cammie’s instead of with Mom downstairs. At least tonight, Cammie didn’t think there would be slamming doors waking her.

***

"Rise and shine, Peanut!”

Cammie rubbed her eyes as she dragged her tattered bear down the stairs.

“Eat up quick. We need to get you dressed and down to the pond before it gets too crowded.” Dad flew around the kitchen. He banged pots and pans for no reason while Mom sat with her forehead in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other.

“God, you can be such an asshole sometimes, Pete,” Mom muttered between gulps of coffee. “I should thank you for killing any second thoughts I had about our meeting this afternoon.”

“You should really bitch to tea, you know.” Dad spun away from Cammie as he spoke.

“What did you say to me?” Mom slammed her mug on the counter. Waves of black crested the rim, dribbling onto the marbled granite.

“Switch to tea.” Dad frisbeed a coaster across the counter. “And use a coaster.”

Cammie prepared her breakfast these days and headed for the pantry to grab her favorite leprechaun adorned cereal box.

“Ow!” She screamed, hopping in chaotic circles holding her toe.

“What happened?” Dad asked.

“I kicked an empty bottle.” Cammie continued hopping on one foot certain she now held the Guinness record for length of time.

“Looks like someone’s Mom decided to stay up late last night and couldn’t get the empty into the recycling bin.”

“Stow it, Pete.” Mom held the coffee close to her mouth but didn’t drink. She popped two little white pills in her mouth and swallowed hard, “Can we just get going?”

***

Cammie loved ice skating with her parents, although she couldn’t understand why they didn’t all hold hands any longer. A small part of her didn’t mind. She would be eight in a few months and could skate without any help these days. Stopping presented a challenge at times, but in her opinion, that’s why there were other skaters on the pond. Dad called them bumper cars.

Her parents trailed behind her the first time around the pond. The only words spoken came from Dad who warned her to stay away from the thin ice sign.

After two laps, Cammie noticed a little boy in a red jacket holding hands with both his mother and his father.

“Skating alone isn’t any fun,” she muttered.

Cammie dropped back and grabbed Mom’s hand. On the next pass, she grabbed Dad's hand and refused to let go of Mom’s.

“Isn’t this fun?” Cammie smiled.

“Yes, Sweetie,” Mom raised one side of her mouth.

“Although, not as fun as an entire bottle of wine,” Dad smirked. “A good bottle too. I believe I brought that back from Sonoma last year too.”

“Seriously, Pete? You’re going to bring that shit up again.” Mom skidded to a halt while Dad continued. Cammie stretched like Gumby between them but held on tight until everyone tumbled to the ice.

“If it were just one time, then no, I wouldn’t bring it up. But come on Claire, that’s what, the fourth bottle this week? Not to mention the girl’s day out last Sunday. I’m sure you were good for a few drinks then.” Dad released Cammie’s hand.

Mom fired back, “Maybe if you paid as much attention to me as you paid to your new secretary we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Cammie found her hands dangling alone.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t live in a movie, spending your days pining to your online friends about finding a soul mate, I wouldn’t have to.” Dad crossed his arms and huffed steam from his nose. Cammie imagined him an ancient Chinese dragon defending a massive pile of gold from would-be marauders.

Mom’s defeated shoulders dropped.

Dad pressed on, “Yeah, that’s right. I read your email. All of them! By the way, Y-O-U apostrophe R-E means you are while Y-O-U-R shows possession.”

“Well Y-O-U apostrophe R-E an asshole and you can shove Y-O-U-R wine up Y-O-U-R A-S-S!” Mom shouted.

Cammie couldn’t follow what was happening, but she felt uncomfortable and skated away from the pair along with every other visitor to the pond. The only thing comforting her now was the dark pink Lily Pulitzer jacket her grandmother bought her last year. She missed her teddy bear.

Words and gestured flew between Mom and Dad as Cammie skated off.

A commotion louder than the couple’s insults commanded a temporary truce.

“Pete, where’s Cammie?”

All four eyes searched the worn ice.

Dad stopped an untalented skater as he hurried toward the entrance, “What happened?”

“Someone fell through the ice. A kid maybe.” He tried to pull away, but Dad restrained him.

“Boy or girl? What did they look like?”

“I don’t know man. Young kid. Wearing a red or pink jacket.”

Mom pushed Dad to the ice, “This is all your fault!” She bolted into the crowd.

Dad tried to stand, but his skate pick caught in the ice during the fall and he twisted his knee awkwardly, “Damn ACL!”

“Cammie, hang on honey, I’m coming! Mommy’s coming!”

Dad watched as Mom pushed her way through the crowd. Two skaters fell, and Dad heard the ice groan.

Mom’s shrill faded as the commotion escalated. Dad saw people plunging branches into the water. Folks frantically waved to the shore beckoning for help.

Dad pounded on the ice, sobbing with each hammer fist strike.

The screams became inaudible, and he couldn’t tell where one rescuer began and another ended. Mom escaped his vision in the sea of jackets.

Again and again, he attempted to stand without success. Inch by inch he dragged himself toward the crowd until he caught a glimpse of a little girl out of the corner of his eye. He looked left and saw a girl Cammie’s size kneeling on the ice with mittens removed and a hand pressed against the transparent sheet of ice staring intently into the frigid waters below.

“Cammie?” Dad hesitated, “Cammie, is that you?”

Cammie watched as Dad crawled across the ice in her direction, “Hey, Daddy. I lost my jacket. Please don’t be mad.”

“It’s okay.” Dad sighed and the pain in his leg no longer mattered. “Peanut, are you okay? What are you doing?”

Cammie smiled wide and looked away from the ice for only a second, “Come see, Daddy. You’ll be so happy. Mommy and I are soul mates.”

The blue-orange flame roared to life stealing precious life blood to feed its light, but he needed to know.

Tom,

You always said I'd send you to an early grave. Guess you were right. You just didn't know you'd still be alive when I did. Take shallow breaths.

Love,

Susan

Thirty-six.

Two kids even Satan wouldn’t fess to fathering.

Squeezed into size ten skinny pants riding so far up my ass they should have a canary to make sure the air is breathable. The sweat rolling off my body like a high-speed assembly line isn’t helping.

My hips beg for a twelve.

Who has their wake catered in the funeral home? Judging by the size of this spread, these pants are probably going to burst before I leave. With any luck, someone’s gonna stroll through those doors wearing sweat pants ready to tackle the giant seafood platter. Anything to help me vanish.

I shimmy between two tables displaying flowered condolence baskets. The pink and white roses shield me from all the eyes entering the room. I’d hide here until the end of the wake if the smell of roses didn’t fill the back of my throat with the shrimp cocktail already testing my 10s.

Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world— if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.

Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter. Court’s words. Not mine.

“Stupid woman reading a text while driving a Range Rover”— would’ve been more accurate.

Progressive sentencing. Also, their words and the reason I’m here today. My husband’s high priced attorney helped. A bigger reason why I’m here and not in jail.

In my defense, the social media director at the high school should be fired for using the term “lock-down” in her text when she meant “lock-in.”

Show some responsibility people.

“Thanks for coming,” a raccoon-eyed young twenty-something says. I think she applied her eyeliner while driving. Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it.

It takes a moment to catch my breath and steady my nerves. The stench of Abercrombie and Fitch assaults my nose. I should have stayed buried behind the flowers.

Size two. Kendra Scott ruby red earrings. Perfect tan. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit becomes a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.

But she has the body, and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.

Of course, I’m jealous. I’d kill for that figure.

Figuratively. I don’t have room on my plate for a second.

“Who knew my uncle was so popular. I haven’t seen him since I left for school four years ago.” A small cardinal red and gold USC tattoo caught my eye as she shifted her weight from left to right. “And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.

The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle and wishes she could change the past.

“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand — unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like it was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.

Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?

A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs sweeps her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts, and I find myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddles in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.

Remind me not to die during football season.

I suppose I should be thankful. Those are the only eyes in the room not throwing judgment my way every time I glance away.

Dan leads a chorus of collective groans. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I pray it isn’t both. Today is hard enough, and I don’t need him pouting until bedtime.

Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.

Seemed everything died around me these days.

A blast of over-zealous air conditioning clears out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprout on my arms, and I regret handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.

Funeral Chic

It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this is the first I’ve attended, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear here. I’m sure it’s bad luck to ever wear it again.

I lay my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?

Veneer.

“You deserved better,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. The rain. The wet road. The stupid wording on the school's text. Worried about the kids. You know. Life.”

And death.

“Were you close?” The funeral director encroaches my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.

I yank my hand off the casket, but my print remains. A ghostly handshake goodbye.

“I saw him jogging.” I inhale deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wipe a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. Shit, Carrie stole my good mascara and replaced it with her cheap crap. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”

“Paul—”

“I know it now!” I snap. “Oh, my God.” My hand lunges for his forearm. “Forgive me. I don’t know. I don’t…”

“It’s alright.” He pats the top of my hand.

His skin. Soft. Softer than mine.

“I’ve heard worse,” he says with a grin and small head nod. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”

Pinned between my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.

“Jogging.” I inhale deeply. A little more mascara might help. “Running. The day he died.”

“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulls his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”

My Coach handbag vibrates against my out-of-shape thigh. I regret skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worrying what women in my class said under their breath.

Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.

One-hundred Seventy-three?

I didn’t think the little number overlapping the Earth icon could show triple-digits.

Dan slips his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile, my first smile in days. I pull it off my face when I realize this isn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.

“I just want people to like me again.” I gaze down at the bright screen in my hand. “Like you do.”

“Don’t look, ’hon.” He peers over my shoulder.

“Good Lord, that Southern California hussy posted a picture of me standing by the casket. Could she have captured a worse angle?” My thumb trembles above the iPhone’s screen. “Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.”

“Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted!”

Liked twenty-eight times.

“How come she’s not wearing orange?”

Liked sixteen times.

“Bet she’s there because the court is making her.”

Liked nineteen times.

And somewhat true, although I needed to apologize in person.

“Her fat ass should have been the one jogging.”

Liked one-hundred two times.

Are you freaking kidding me? One-hundred and two people think I’m fat.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred three.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred four.

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silence my iPhone and shove it deep in my purse right past the waterproof mascara I forgot I was there. Dan nods and pulls me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”

Phone chirps replace the solemn choral music in the room. Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanges glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wipes down his arm where I touched him.

“Take me home, Dan.” I crumple in his arms. He is my grill, my concrete wall, holding up my remains. “Please, take me home.”

I don’t know how I’ll face the rest of the court’s demands, but I survived the first one. The easy one.

Barely.

Chapter 2

“Katy Simmons’ mom wrote, and I quote, Tessa Gilbert’s fat ass is going to jail.” Carrie pushes aside her AP English book to make room for her forearms on the counter. She still resents me for making her take an AP course her senior year of high school. “Is that true, Mom?”

Jail. The ultimate boot camp, I mutter quietly in my head.

“I’m sure I could stand to lose some weight,” I say with a smirk. Hiding behind humor comes easier than facing reality. “Where did you read that?” I slide a napkin with a treat on it across the counter to her.

“On Facebook.” She chomps into the gooey chocolate chip cookie. I don’t mind a few sweets around the house, but nightly milkshakes and daily treats have become the norm after the accident. “There’s this group called Cedar Lake Grins and Sins.”

“Oh, that group. I didn’t even realize I was in it until the funeral, but I guess Katy’s mom added me.” I bite into my own cookie. My third of the afternoon.

No need to guess. Size two Cynthia, Katie’s Mom, guilty as charged. Little Miss Perfect used every opportunity she could to remind us of her petite frame. I swear she buys Lululemon pants just to resell them on the local Facebook Swap groups.

“Katy said her mom setup a fundraiser for the niece of the guy you killed,” Carrie thumbs dance across her phone as she talks. “Should we do something?”

I toss tonight’s dinner on the carving board, biting down hard on my tongue. The Henckels meat cleaver fails to make a dent in the frozen pork chops despite being fueled by my resentment of Miss Perfect.

“Are you going to jail?” Carrie mumbles, a few crumbs of flaky brown find their way to the corner of her mouth.

“Dang. Mom, a jailbird.” Jake tosses his denim jacket on the leather living room ottoman. “That’d give me street cred at school for sure.”

“Freshman don’t have street cred. Especially ones who think denim is making a comeback,” Carrie fires back.

“Shut up!”

“You shut up!”

Maybe jail wouldn’t be such a bad place.

I slam down the frozen chops on the granite kitchen countertop. “Seriously, you two. You could wake the dead!”

If only.

“First, young lady, I am not going to jail. And second, young man, hang up your jacket. I’m not your maid.” Jabbing a steak knife between the slabs of meat achieves even less than the cleaver. “Dammit, these things didn’t thaw in the refrigerator.”

“But Katy’s mom said –”

“Who gives a rat’s ass what Katy’s mom said? This isn’t how I wanted to tell you kids.” I set the pearled handled steak knife on the counter. Something about discussing my punishment while holding a knife didn’t sit well with me. Guess I’m lucky I didn’t have to learn how to handle a shiv. “It’s already been decided. Your father and I met with the lawyers last week. We planned on taking the family out and celebrating this weekend, but...”

What kind of song would the waitstaff sing?

Thirty-six. Two kids even Satan would disown. Squeezed into size 10 skinny pants while my hips beg for size 12. Attending a wake with a spread so large it puts all you can eat joints to shame and my size 10s to the test.

Even on the wrong side of thirty, this wouldn’t be the worst place in the world if I hadn’t killed the guy eternally sleeping under the closed mahogany casket.

Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter.

Court’s words. Not mine.

Stupid woman posting on Facebook while driving a Range Rover would’ve been more accurate.

In my defense, people shouldn’t use social media to rehome puppies because they pee in the house. It warranted an immediate response.

Show some responsibility people!

“Thanks for coming,” a young twenty-something said. I think she put on her eyeliner while driving.

Bet she didn’t kill anyone while doing it, though.

Size 2. Kendra Scott earrings. Green Lily Pulitzer sundress. At a funeral? Tacky. One kid and that outfit will become a distant memory tucked deep in the huge guest bedroom closet of her sugar daddy’s McMansion.

But she has the body and no one even seems to care she’s not wearing black.

Of course, I’m jealous. I would kill for her body.

“Who knew my uncle was so popular. And you are?” She left a pink lipstick ring matching the off-year Rosé on her plastic glass waiting for me to answer.

The crazy bitch who ran over your uncle who wishes she could figure out how to change the past.

“Tessa Gilbert.” I offered a full hand, unmanicured nails and all. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” She pinched my index finger between her fingers and thumb like I was a shrimp. Creepy. As if I weren’t uncomfortable already.

Can we get some cocktail sauce over here?

A flock of Vera Wang designer knock-offs swept her up in a flurry of selfies and Instagram posts and I found myself alone in a perfectly crowded room while Dan, my husband, huddled in the corner with five other men checking their fantasy football teams.

Remind me not to die during football season.

Dan led a chorus of collective groans from the men. Judging by his eye roll and grinding teeth, either the Steelers or his make-believe team was losing. I prayed it wasn’t both. Today was hard enough and I didn’t need him pouting until bedtime.

Service ended thirty minutes earlier and already half the arrangements wilted.

Seemed everything died around me these days.

A blast of over-zealous air conditioning cleared out the area around the casket offering me a chance to say my goodbyes alone. Goosebumps sprouted on my arms and I regretted handing my jacket off to Dan when we arrived. Like my pants, it didn’t fit any longer, but it matched my outfit.

Funeral Chic

It didn’t exist in my wardrobe. Hell, this was the first I attended in my life, but I wasn’t about to buy something to wear it to a funeral. I’m sure it’s bad luck to wear it again.

I laid my hand on the oak casket. Smooth. Clean. Peeling?

Veneer.

“You deserved better,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. The rain. The wet road. Kids arguing. You know. Life.”

And death.

“Were you close?” The funeral director encroached my personal space. A bit heavy on the Old Spice, but I watched earlier as he glided from person to person, offering an ear and a kind word.

I yanked my hand off the casket, but my print remained. A ghostly handshake goodbye.

“I saw him jogging.” I inhaled deep, clearing the congestion in my sinuses. “Every day. Rain or shine. He never missed a day. At least, I don’t think he did.” I wiped a tear and most of my mascara from my eyes. “I didn’t even know his name until the day he died.”

“Paul—”

“I know it now!” I snapped. “Oh, my God.” My hand found his forearm. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know. I don’t…”

“It’s alright.” He patted the top of my hand.

His skin. So soft. Softer than mine.

“I’ve heard worse,” he said. “It’s an emotional time for everyone. It helps to talk. Can you tell me about the last time you saw him?”

Pinned against my front grill and a concrete barrier. You know, the barriers where they are doing road construction out past the Jiffy Wash and the new self-storage place. His head looked like a pumpkin after a Devil’s Night prank. I screamed at my kids to stay in the car. So much blood. I wanted to do CPR. I’ve taken classes. But his chest. How do you do chest compressions when the chest is already compressed? These folks are lucky they can’t see under this casket. It’s a nightmare. My nightmare.

“Jogging.” I inhaled deep. “Jogging. The day he died.”

“Well, take comfort in knowing he died doing something he loved.” The funeral director pulled his arm free. “We should all be so lucky.”

My Coach handbag vibrated against my thigh. I regretted skipping Pilates this month, too busy feeling sorry for myself and worried what women in my class were saying under their breath.

Gah! Stupid Facebook notifications. I always forget to silence them. Dan says it’s going to get us kicked out of the movies one day.

One-hundred Seventy-three?

I didn’t think the little number on top of the Earth icon could show triple-digits. The irony being all one-hundred seventy-three of those notifications were comments from people in my kids’ school district.

That hussy posted a picture of me at the casket. Could she have gotten a worse angle?

Dan slipped his hand onto the small of my back. His touched made me smile. I pulled it off my face when I realized this wasn’t the best place to be caught smiling. People were watching.

“Don’t look, ’hon.” He peered over my shoulder.

“Let’s see what the world has to say about Tessa Gilbert.” My thumb trembled above the iPhone’s screen.

“Looks, it’s Cedar Lake’s Most Wanted.”

Liked twenty-eight times.

“How come she’s not wearing orange?”

Liked sixteen times.

“Bet she’s only there because the court is making her.”

Liked nineteen times.

“Her fat ass should have been the one out there jogging.”

Liked one-hundred two times.

Are you kidding me? One-hundred and two people, one-hundred and two neighbors, think I’m fat.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred three.

{{{Vrrr}}}

One-hundred four.

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

{{{Vrrr}}}

“Remember how I said I just want to be liked?” I silenced my iPhone and shoved it deep in my purse. Dan nodded and pulled me in closer. “This isn’t what I meant.”

Everyone in the funeral parlor exchanged glances between their phones and me. The funeral director wiped down his arm where I had been touching him.

“Take me home, Dan.” I crumpled in his arms. He was my grill, my concrete wall, holding up what was left of me. “Please, take me home.”