Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series) (15 page)

But Death’s response was as clear as if it had been spoken. She would never sleep if she didn’t do what needed doing. Maybe she should call Eric. Nah. She didn’t want to wake him up.

“You think he’s
sleeping
?” Death’s voice dripped with incredulity. “With you three blocks away?”

Even more reason not to call him.

The clock on the wall ticked. The heater kicked on. The wind made the drying leaves on the trees rustle. Something skittered across the roof. Or in the ceiling.

“Okay.
Okay
. I’ll go.”

Casey flung off the afghan and got up, before she could change her mind. She hesitated only briefly before heading up the stairs, and went directly to Omar’s door. She stood there, listening, as she used to when she would check on him before going to bed. Of course there was no sound now. Nothing but the heater and the wind and her rodent visitor. She opened the door.

Omar’s crib still sat against the wall, under the mobile. Ricky must have thought it would sell the house better that way, with the Noah’s Ark wallpaper and the blonde wood changing table. Omar’s dresser, drawers empty, sat beside it, a collection of Webkinz on the top, complementing the decorative border. Casey ran her hands along the top of the crib, and used a finger to start the mobile turning. The rocking chair sat in the corner along with memories of late nights, and Casey decided she’d had enough.

She shut the door behind her, her heart in her throat, wondering if she should just cut her losses and spend the night on the street.

Her feet propelled her across the landing until she stood outside her own bedroom door. Hers and Reuben’s. She was tempted to listen there, as she had at Omar’s, but the sounds she might hear from behind that door were too painful to contemplate. She turned the doorknob and flung the door open.

Her breath left her in a wild rush, and she grabbed at the doorjamb, her head spinning. How could the room still smell like him after all this time? That mixture of Reuben’s natural musk and Sybaris, his Mexican cologne. He’d been gone
two years
. The house had seen many cleanings and walk-throughs and days. How was it possible? How could it still hurt that much?

“Go on then, sweetheart.” Death stood beside her, for once empty-handed, so close she could feel the chill. “The first step is the hardest. I promise.”

“Like you would know.”

Death looked at her with such kindness she thought her heart would break.

“You think I don’t know pain?” Death said. “Or sorrow? My dear, they’re part of what I do. Part of who I am. Not a day goes by I don’t feel it a hundred and fifty thousand times. So I do know, my love.”

“You took him.”

Death sighed the sigh of many losses. “It wasn’t my decision. You know that. It’s never my decision. I just follow the rules.”

“The
rules
.”

“They’re what make the world go ’round. And no matter how creative we try to be, we can’t break them. Your voice on my phone? Didn’t work a bit. Good thing the nosy neighbor had a phone handy, because apparently you have to use human devices, since you’re a human. And I have to do what I do. Because no matter how we feel about them, no matter how bent and crooked we think they are, we have to follow the rules.”

Casey took a deep breath through her nose and let it out her mouth, centering herself. “The first step is really the hardest?”

“I promise.”

So Casey let go of the doorjamb, clenched her jaw, and took that first step.

She didn’t collapse.

She didn’t break down into a sobbing mass.

She didn’t pass out.

“He’s not here,” she said.

Death smiled sadly. “Of course he isn’t.”

Casey turned on the light and spun in a slow circle, taking in the details of the room. Most of the personal effects were gone. No
dobaks
were draped over the footboard. No dress shoes sat in a perfect line under Reuben’s side of the bed. No messy pile of books and magazines lay on the nightstands next to the matching lamps. But the quilt was still the same, since it went with the walls and the curtains. The blown-up photo from their trip to the Grand Canyon still hung over the headboard. And the antique toy ferris wheel, the one that had belonged to Casey’s grandmother, sat on top of the dresser, the clown on the axle smiling insanely.

Casey ran her hand over the bed, feeling the handmade stitches, so lovingly sewn there by her mother, before…well, before everything.

“Go on,” Death said. “You’re exhausted.”

“But—”

“Sleep, child.”

Casey pulled down the corner of the quilt on her side of the bed. And she crawled in. And she went to sleep.

Chapter Seventeen

Someone was pounding on the front door. Casey dragged herself from sleep and looked at the clock. Eight o’clock. Crap. Again, where was Death when she could actually use some help?

She stumbled down the stairs and flung open the door. Eric stared at her, apparently not sure whether to smile or run screaming.

Casey looked at him for several seconds before backing up and gesturing for him to come in. “Weren’t you supposed to come later?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe you couldn’t, either.”

Should she tell him just how little sleep she’d gotten? No. “Fine,” she said instead. “Give me a minute. Or ten.”

He held up a bag and some coffee from one of the local coffee shops. “Got breakfast.”

“Awesome. Make yourself at home in the kitchen. Not that there’s much there.”

She left him standing in the foyer and went upstairs to take a shower. Fifteen minutes later she was back down, unfortunately still wearing the same clothes as the day before. She threw the rest of her clothes in the washer and joined Eric in the kitchen.

He set some coffee in front of her, along with creamer and sugar packs. “So you got some sleep, then?”

“I guess. Some. You?”

“Few hours. Your brother’s place is nice. I used the guest room. Found some sheets in one of the closets.”

She sipped the coffee black and pointed at the bag. “What’s in there?”

He pulled out a couple of scones, two hot egg and sausage biscuits, and some cherry Danishes. “Take your pick.”

Casey picked one of each and ate them all. The burrito hadn’t exactly been satisfying the night before.

“So tell me where we’re going,” Eric said.

“A crappy restaurant, where Alicia worked.”

“She’s the woman who was murdered?”

“Raped, tortured, and murdered. Yes. And she was my brother’s girlfriend.”

Eric had paled at her description, but asked, “What do we know so far?”

“That my brother didn’t do it.”

“Assume I’m not an idiot, okay?”

“Sorry. We don’t know a lot. Alicia McManus wasn’t her real name, and we don’t know where she came from when she showed up this summer.”

“How do we know about the name?”

Whoops. Back-pedaling time. “Law enforcement can’t find her anywhere in the system, so it makes sense that she didn’t exist under it.” Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

“Any ideas on that?”

“They’re looking into it. Trying some new combinations.”

He looked at her over his Danish. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s a lot I’m not telling you. I haven’t had time.”

“Fair enough. So keep going.”

She took him through the basics—that Alicia was running from a dangerous past, she carried almost nothing with her as she ran, and she supposedly loved Ricky. She told him about Ricky’s neighbor Geraldine and what she’d seen, and about the stash of sayings, candy, and books that Ricky had hidden away.

“Carol Burnett?” Eric said. “Is he a fan?”

“Not that I ever knew of. Maybe Alicia was.”

“Weird.”

“Tell me about it. And other than those bizarre offerings, we’ve got nothing.”

“What about this restaurant? What are we looking for there?”

“I want to talk to the other employees, in case Alicia told them anything. I doubt she did, since she barely even talked to Ricky, but she might have let something slip. What?”

“People can find things out, even if you don’t tell them.”

“You mean like how you figured out who I was?”

He shrugged.

“But you had my ID. I’d left it in my bag. It’s not like it was hard.”

“I knew before that.”

“I don’t believe you. How?”

“Remember? I told you. Your first name. Some Internet searches.”

“But we don’t know her real fir—” But she did. In fact, she knew Alicia’s entire name. She just hadn’t considered a computer, which was dumb, seeing how Death had been parading around with every technology known to humankind. “You have something we can use to look online?”

“Sure. I have an iPad in the car. I’ll get it.”

Soon he was back, and Casey had a dilemma. How was she supposed to look this up with Eric watching? She couldn’t possibly explain to him how she knew Alicia’s real name.

“So I think we’ve gotten to whatever it is you’re not telling me.” Eric’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“I don’t know
how
to tell you.” Again, Death was nowhere to be found when she needed advice. Not that she ever really wanted the advice Death had to offer.

Eric sat quietly and waited.

“I know her real name.”

“And you haven’t told law enforcement because…”

“They would lock me up.”

“What did you do to get it?”

“It’s not what I’ve done. It’s how I know. And they wouldn’t lock me up for being a criminal. It would be because they’d think I’m nuts.”

“Whereas you’re telling me because I already know you are?”

“You have to wonder, don’t you?”

“I’ve seen nuttier.” A shadow crossed his face, and Casey knew he was thinking of three weeks earlier, when a woman crazy with greed and a man with grief ended up a bloody mess. He shook himself, and the shadow left his face. “So what’s her name?”

“That’s what you want to know? Not how I found out?”

“For now. You’ll tell me more when you want to.”

She hesitated.

“Come on.” He nudged her knee with his own. “What is it?”

“It’s just, I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

“No, I mean, what’s her name?”

“Elizabeth Mann. Two ‘n’s.”

He typed the name into his iPad and seventeen thousand hits came up. The daughter of Thomas Mann, a research physicist, a holocaust survivor, a lawyer, and a flutist. Plus scores and scores of other people, none of them the late Alicia McManus. There were a few women who looked a little like her, but on close examination were far from the person they sought.

“Any other suggestions?” Eric said.

Casey leaned back in her chair and stretched out her feet, accidentally bumping Eric. She pulled away. “It’s time to head to the restaurant. You up for driving?”

“Sure. You up for riding?” Three weeks ago Casey had been right on the edge about being in moving vehicles. She just hadn’t done it much since the accident, preferring instead to walk or ride a bike, or even hop a train. But there came a time when there was nothing else to be done. Once over the first hurdle—kind of like that first step upstairs—she was able to ride in, and even drive, cars and trucks. She didn’t love it, but she knew it was the way things had to be.

“I’ll manage. Thanks for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.”

She looked across the table at his open, friendly, handsome face, and felt a sudden pang. What was she doing in her house—
Reuben’s
house—alone with another man? She stood up, making the chair screech. “Let’s go.”

She followed Eric out to the car. Death leaned against the rear door, jabbing at something on a Kindle Fire. “Die, you stupid pig!
Die
!”

Casey peered at the screen, which was filled with colorful exploding birds and crashing wooden structures.

“Something wrong?” Eric asked.

“Nothing I can explain.”

They drove to The Slope, Casey hyper-aware of Eric’s hand on his knee. Really. What was wrong with her? She’d shared a passionate kiss with a different man in Florida only days before, simply because he reminded her of Reuben. Now, here she was, feeling all tingly over a guy who was nothing like him, who she happened to almost sleep with a few weeks earlier. She had to get her hormones under control.

Death groaned and threw the Kindle at the window, where it exploded in a cloud of mist before it could shatter the glass. “Those
pigs
. I
hate
them!”

They pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant and Eric wrinkled his nose. “Definitely glad we ate at your place.”