My hands were shaking by the time I made it to the end of the article. Could they have possibly made me sound any worse? The coroner had made a neutral statement about the incident still being under investigation and how grateful he was that no one had been hurt, blah blah blah…but nothing about believing my side of the story. Betrayal curdled my gut. I also had a pretty dark suspicion that I knew who the “unnamed source at the coroner’s office” was. Allen Fucking Prejean. Not that it mattered. And even if I do pass the GED and get off probation, I’ll still always be a felon, and I’ll still always be a high school dropout.
I did not—did NOT—want to go in to work and face anyone with a pulse, and it took every fucking ounce of carefully scrounged discipline to actually turn the car in the proper direction and head to the coroner’s office. But I also didn’t plan on budging from the morgue itself. If I even have a job still, I thought miserably.
I’d hoped to slip in the back unnoticed, but my heart sank at the sight of Derrel leaning against the hood of his Durango by the back door. It was clear he was waiting for me. He’s going to break the news to me that I’m fired, or suspended, or some shit like that. Hell, maybe I’ll even be arrested for filing a false police report, and my probation will get revoked. Oh yeah, there were all sorts of shitty things that could happen now.
I parked my car on the other side of the lot and masochistically made myself walk to him. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry or upset, which I kinda thought—or at least hoped—he might look if I’d been fired.
“You saw the newspaper?” I said as soon as I was close.
“I did.” He pushed off the truck and suddenly enveloped me a hug that made my ribs creak before releasing me. “Angel, you’re not going to lose your job.”
“You don’t know that,” I replied, doing my absolute best to keep my voice from shaking. I thought I was successful, but Derrel was more than perceptive enough to know how upset I was.
He let out a soft sigh. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. You just got your life back on track, and now everything’s about to be yanked away. But you have something now you didn’t have before.”
“Jeans that don’t have a rip across the ass?”
A smile twitched across his mouth. “Well, yes. But you also have a cadre of people who have your back. If—and it’s a big ‘if’—you lose your job here, we’ll find you a job. Maybe even one that doesn’t require you to dig through dead bodies.”
But that’s the part of the job I need, I silently wailed, but I put on a brave face and the smile that Derrel was expecting. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
He leaned back against the truck again and lowered his head to peer at me. “Not to be too nosy, but that was your first offense, wasn’t it?”
I heaved a sigh. “Yep. I guess that’s why I managed to slide by on just probation.”
A frown creased Derrel’s broad forehead. “Why didn’t you plead eight-nine-three or eight-eight-one-point-one?”
I gave him the blankest look I possessed. “Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The frown progressed to his mouth. “Your attorney should have pled you eight-nine-three, which, in Louisiana, for certain offenses, allows you to expunge it so it doesn’t show on your record, as long as you keep your nose clean afterwards.”
I snorted. “My attorney was a public defender who was so hungover he couldn’t even remember my name. And I’m pretty damn sure he didn’t even read my file until about five minutes before I went before the judge.” I grimaced and tugged a hand through my hair. “I wonder if I can go back and get it changed.”
Derrel shook his head slowly. “Doesn’t work that way. Only way for you to get your record cleared now is a pardon. Sorry.”
“What, you mean like from the governor?” I gave a low bark of laughter. “I doubt the governor will give a crap about a skank who got caught with a stolen car.” Then I yelped as Derrel smacked me on the side of the head. “Ow! Hey!”
“Stop calling yourself names,” he said with an accompanying dark glower. “There are plenty of people in this world who are willing to do that for you. Don’t make it easy for them.”
I rubbed my head, scowling. “Okay, okay.”
He grimaced. “I feel responsible that all of this happened. I should have come back to the morgue with you.” He looked truly upset, and I was reminded for the zillionth time that this man, who looked like he could still play linebacker without breathing hard, had the gentlest soul I’d ever encountered. No wonder he was so damn good at dealing with the bereaved.
I shook my head firmly. “Derrel, I’ve been to the morgue at night a zillion times. And if you’d been here he probably would have shot you.” I stepped back and made a show of sizing him up. “Though he might have had to use several bullets.”
On impulse I gave him a quick hug, though my arms didn’t come anywhere close to reaching all the way around him. “It’s cool, big guy. And if you keep that shit up I’ll start crying, and then I’ll have to kick your ass.” I gave him a mock-fierce look that was as much an attempt to cheer myself up as him. “And don’t you think I can’t! I play dirty.”
He grinned. “I know. It’s why I like you so much.”
Chapter 7
The rest of my shift was blessedly uneventful. No deaths, no autopsies, and at five p.m. I quickly changed into the clothes I planned to wear to Pietro’s and drove to Marcus’s place. I sure as hell didn’t want him to pick me up at my house. My dad still had no clue who I was dating, and I intended to keep it that way until the right time to break it to him that I was dating the cop who’d taken him to jail for domestic violence.
In other words, never.
Marcus greeted me with a smile and a kiss. He didn’t seem annoyed or upset, which told me that he hadn’t seen the article. And I didn’t feel like bringing it up and putting a damper on the rest of the day.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—the whole prospect of meeting his uncle was more than enough to distract me.
“Would you please calm down?” Marcus abruptly said after we were well on our way.
I stopped jiggling my leg, clamped my hands together, and gave Marcus an overly wide smile. “I’m calm. Totally calm. Like ice.”
He reached over to give my hand a squeeze. “Angel. It’s going to be fine. I promise. My uncle’s pretty damn cool.” He smiled. “He puts up with me, doesn’t he?”
I snorted. “Yeah, like that’s hard.” I glanced his way. “So, is he your dad’s brother or your mom’s? What’s the rest of your family like?”
“He’s my dad’s older brother—both adopted. The rest of my family is great. Mom, Dad, my sister, and before you ask, no, they don’t know I’m a zombie. My uncle’s the only one who knows.”
“A sister? Younger or older?”
“Older,” he replied. “By about ten years. She works up in Boston.” He smiled proudly. “She’s brilliant. Masters in Modern Lit and going for her Ph.D.”
“Have you thought…” I stopped, tried to figure out how to ask what I wanted to ask without killing the mood. “Never mind.”
“What?”
I grimaced. “Um, well, this has been on my mind ever since I found out how old Kang was.” Kang had been a mortuary worker at Scott Funeral Home, and was the first zombie to give me some pointers for how to exist in my undead state. He’d looked like he was in his early twenties, but had actually been closer to eighty—that is, until Ed killed him and chopped off his head.