He squeezed my hand. “Not really, but there’s no sense in prolonging it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Tate quipped, before knocking.
A minute or so passed before the door creaked open, revealing a stout woman with long, white hair, wearing half-moon glasses attached to a beaded chain and a flowing, gauzy, colorful dress.
“Hello, my boy,” she said warmly, embracing Tate. “You’ve been away too long.”
He eyed her. “I saw you on Tuesday.”
She waved off his reply. “Too long. Now, show me…Oh.”
The second she laid eyes on Charlie, she stepped back, a hand over her heart. “My God…” she mumbled, before making the sign of the cross over her forehead and chest. “What have you brought to me?”
Tate cringed. “Uh,well, this is Charles—Charlie—Randolph. And I’m pretty sure he’s not a serial killer. He is dead, though. I think.”
“That’s quite the introduction,” Charlie mumbled. “Hi, Ms. Morris. My name is Charlie, and I am most certainlynota serial killer. I am dead, though. I don’t understand what’s happened to me, with, you know,” he gestured to his corporeal body, “and Tate said you might be able to help.”
He offered his hand to shake, which she stared at before making the sign of the cross again and stepping back. “Come inside, the neighbors already have enough to gossip about.”
We all followed her into a living room draped in faded brown, mustard yellow, and gaudy orange. The plastic sofa cover squeaked when Charlie and I sat down, and I made the intentional effort to tuck my elbows in, hoping to avoid knockingover one of the many lamps and trinkets cluttered atop every available surface.
All of her decorative items were displayed on white, delicately crocheted doilies, and judging by the way my nose itched, I’d hazard a guess she hadn’t dusted since the moon landing.
“Tea?” she asked.
“No,” I replied quickly, fearful of what would beinthe tea. “Uh,thank you, though.”
“Yes, please,” Charlie said with a smile.
I side-eyed him, and his responding shrug said,“What? I’m already dead.”
She shuffled into what I presumed was the kitchen, through a doorway adorned with, honest to fucking God,beaded curtains.
“Your grandmother is… something,” I whispered to Tate, confident she wouldn’t hear me over the still-rattling doorway.
He unzipped his jacket and peeled it off. It had to be at least eighty degrees inside, no fan in sight. “Yes, she is. But she’s a saint and set me right before I could fuck up my own life irreparably, so give her any of your usual shit and I’ll punch your teeth in.”
As if to tempt me into testing what I was certain wasn’t an empty threat, a hairless cat jumped up onto the sofa cushion next to me and began rubbing itself against my arm, purring.
Charlie covered his laugh with a cough.
Tate looked like a kid at Christmas, gleefully pulling out his phone to take a picture. “That’s your contact photo now, by the way,” he said, grinning.
“This is the first time I actually wish I had one of those, so you could mail me that picture,” Charlie said, chortling.
“I’ll have a print made for you.” He turned to me. “She usually growls at everyone, so you two are made for each other.”
I frowned down at the little creature, who looked more like a raw chicken with eyeballs than a house pet. “If I get punched in the face, it’s your fault.”
She scowled back and began purring louder, kneading her paws into the sticky plastic covering and head-butting my shoulder, as if pleased to have chosen the person it would bother the most.
The curtains rattled again, and Viola Morris’s return brought me back to the matter at hand, the rubber band around my chest squeezing impossibly tighter.
She placed the tray carrying four cups of tea on the coffee table before sitting across from us in a brown recliner that was probably older than me. “I see you’ve met Sunshine.”
On cue, the cat stepped across the table and sniffed at the mugs before curling up in her lap.
I raised an eyebrow. “Sunshine?”
