“Than?”
“Yes, Reed Daughter.”
“You sound different.”
“I am aware.”
I pushed the dog’s butt. He rolled over, leaving about three inches of couch free. I wriggled in next to him, crossed my legs and picked up the remote. “What can I do for you?”
“I require your attendance.”
“Oh…kay. Where?”
“At my abode.”
I just sat there with my thumb stuck in the down position on the remote. The TV flashed soundlessly through channel choices.
“You want me to come to your house?”
“Did I not just say as much?”
“You did, no you did. All right. That’s— Why?”
“If you would come, we could speak in person.”
Alarm bells went off. Death might be a lot of things—and he was. But he was rarely cagey about what he required of a person.
“Are you all right?”
“Quite.”
“But are you in danger?”
“Delaney.” The sigh said it all.
“If there’s someone in your house holding you at gunpoint just say you want pepperoni with extra cheese. If you’re tied to a chair, tell me to add pineapple. And if it’s more of a hostage situation, tell me you like the thin crust so crisp a fly can crack it.”
“I regret this immensely.”
“Is that code for something? Something embarrassing? Do you have a body part stuck in something, or something stuck in a body part? Did you accidentally handcuff yourself naked somewhere? The roof?”
“If I had—” And then the weirdest thing happened. He sneezed. “If I wanted—” He sneezed again. “Good-bye, Reed Daughter.”
He hung up, the little click as loud as a coffin lid slamming in place.
“No,” I said. “No way. You’re not getting out of this that easily. Plus, you invited me to your house.”
I sprang up and put on my coat and boots in a flash. I grabbed my purse. As an afterthought, I detoured to the cupboard for a can of chicken soup, a box of tissues with the menthol lotion in it and—after dithering for a second—decided not to pack the cold chicken.
My phone rang again.
“Yo.”
“Are you okay?” Myra asked.
“Yes. Well, Ryder stood me up, but I’m good. Why?”
“I just had this overwhelming urge to call you. Are you doing something stupid?”
