“Shannon, listen. This is the man who stole my life. He bashed my brains in right in front of you and now he’s dispossessed your soul from your body. Why are you defending him?”
Even as I said all this, I remembered how hard it had been to shake off Conrad’s spell. His voice, his charm, his charisma. It had all worked together to weave a glamour that invoked love and compliance over anyone he spoke to. Shannon had spent the most time with him so it made sense it would take the longest to wear off.
“Shannon. Look at me. Look. At. Me.” She finally untucked her head from Dante’s chest and blinked up at me through teary eyes. “Your dad is not a good guy. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but it’s true. I, too, fell under his spell, but you have to realize he needs to be taken down. Literally,” I concluded, pointing toward the floor and the underworld beneath it.
She only sobbed louder. Dante shot me an accusatory look and wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders.
“You should have scythed him when you had the chance. Instead of kicking him.” Dante freed up one arm to point at me as he said this. “An experienced Reaper would have known that. Now Conrad may get to stay.”
“An experienced . . . You did not just make this my fault!”
“If the hiking boot fits . . .” He patted Shannon’s back as she cowered against his strong, manly chest.
I’d had enough. The hysterical woman always gets all the attention. I stormed through the wall and into the hallway and kept right on storming until I reached the main conference room. I walked through the wall, hoping to find the boardroom empty. I needed some alone time right now so I could work through everything that had just happened. I needed to get to a point where I could admit to myself that Dante was right. An experienced Reaper would have gone for the scythe, not the dropkick.
But I wasn’t alone. Yet another unfamiliar man sat at the head of the table, across from Frannie. She wore an innocent expression that meant she was up to something. I sat down in an empty chair to listen.
The man wore a stern expression. A tiny notebook lay open on the table before him. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but had that permanently exhausted and counting-the-days-to-retirement look that some people develop prematurely. Something about him said law enforcement. Might have been the shoulder holster peeking out from his trench coat, might have been the glinting gold of his detective shield clipped to his belt. Was this the detective Shannon had referred to during her telephone conversation?
“I was on my way out, Ms. Tick. Did you have something else to add to this investigation? Something more than your . . .” He checked his notes. “Lengthy interview from this morning?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. Frannie had always been a complainer. She’d probably bent his ear for as long as she could hold him there.
Frannie tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “Yes, Detective Leo, I do. I just happened to be passing Shannon’s office this very morning.”
Just passing, my ass. So you were the one listening outside Shannon’s door.
“And I heard her say . . .” She placed her iPhone on the table, pressing a button. Music shrilled from the device: “Let’s give ’em something to talk ab—.”
“Whoops.” The music cut off as abruptly as it had started.
“Um, just a moment.” Frannie pressed a few more icons and buttons. Then Shannon’s voice rang out: “. . . I just wanted her to get on with it. It was selfish, I know, but I felt like it was me in that coma. My life was on hold since I was filling in for her here at the office. I couldn’t help but wish she’d either wake up or die.”
Uh-oh. That didn’t sound good. What, exactly, was Detective Leo investigating?
And suddenly I knew. He was investigating my murder. And whether or not Shannon had been the one to bash my head in.
That skegging stapler again. From it all hassles flow. I hadn’t noticed it on Conrad’s desk. Maybe it was in the VP office Shannon had used before this week. Or maybe it had come to life again and wandered off.
One could hope.
Oh, wait. I closed my eyes and focused on a vague memory. A hospital security guard. He’d picked up the stapler in his latex-gloved hand and dropped it in a clear plastic bag. It must reside in some evidence lockup somewhere. It had been the murder weapon, after all. Its days as a device for fastening papers together were history.
“Can you email that sound file to this email address, please?” The detective slid a business card across the table to Frannie. She picked up her iPhone, clicked a few keys and his pocket pinged a new message. “Thanks. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.”
He rose and strode out the door, closing it after himself as he exited. Frannie rocked back and forth in the leather boardroom chair, the expression on her face one of angry satisfaction.
Oh, Frannie. What have you done?
At the sound of tapping behind me, I spun around quickly, hand on my scythe.
Now I reach for my scythe.
But it was only Dante, standing at the boardroom window, his arm still wrapped protectively around Shannon’s shoulders. He crooked his finger at me. Once again I faced the door and tried to turn the knob. Damn. My cheeks burned, no doubt turning the color of demon Conrad’s skin. Keeping my head down as if I were watching my footing, I stepped through the door and out into the hallway. “Okay.” I said, letting go of my scythe. “What now?”
“I think we had best take Shannon back to Hell and explain to Colin what has happened. We cannot teleport Shannon’s soul since her body is still alive, as yours was. Therefore, we’ll need to walk there. You can go on ahead if you prefer, teleporting via your new scythe. Then once we arrive, we’ll fill out the paperwork for a Curb Appeal—that will curb Conrad’s activities and possibly get him charged with possession. Then we can—”
“Nope,” I interrupted conversationally.
“What?” Dante demanded.
“What? Shannon echoed.
“Dante. Shannon. Listen to me. The appeal thing? Didn’t work out so well for me. Hell’s nothing if not unfair. So we’re not going that route—it’s the route of all evil.” I spread my arms wide, trying to convince them I had a good plan. “The reason I didn’t go straight to Hell on my own when you scythed me is because it wasn’t my time yet and my body was still alive on the Coil, right?”
Dante gifted me with the most noncommittal nod in history. Shannon looked more confused.
“So the same is true for Shannon. But instead of going through channels, we’re going to handle this ourselves.” I held up one hand like a traffic cop to prevent interruptions. Do you know that doesn’t actually work? But I kept talking right over Dante’s protests. “I don’t care what the rules say. Shannon, as Lucy is my witness, I swear to you that we will get your life back. And it’ll be better than ever. We promise. Don’t we, Dante?” I willed him to agree, but that, too, never works.
“Just a moment, Kirsty. You cannot go around making promises like that. We have the Prime Directive to follow.” He turned to Shannon, explaining. “The Prime Directive is Hell’s law of noninterference.”
“Dante, that’s a Star Trek thing you so need to get over,” I yelled, finally losing whatever patience I’d managed to muster.
“Where do you think they got it? Remember bleed-through?”
Oh. That hadn’t occurred to me. Had Gene Roddenberry once been a Reaper? Some episodes had been pretty far out. I could see Hellish influences on his work. My mind jumped to the fateful day when the time machine had gone postal. Poor Raul, the workman who’d been sucked into the demonic portal between Hell dimensions. He should have known better than to wear a red shirt to a world-threatening crisis.