I flip to the next page. Another picture. This one of a balding, vaguely sweaty-looking man.
Edgar Holt. Age: 52. Profession: Plumber. Suspected of poisoning the water filters in multiple apartment complexes. Official cause of death for victims: organ failure due to undiagnosed conditions. No official ties to Holt. No police investigation.
I stare at the file.
Poisoning water filters? Killing children under the guise of medical complications? These weren’t just murderers. They were the kind of people who killed quietly, insidiously. The kind who never got caught because their crimes were designed to blend into the background of everyday tragedies.
I exhale slowly, lifting my eyes to Nathaniel.
“These people,” I say, my voice hollow. “They’ve… they've never been charged with anything?”
“Not legally,” Nathaniel replies, setting the files down on the table. “Not in a way that matters.”
Fuck. Okay.
“And you want me to do what, exactly?” I ask.
“We're not omniscient. We don’t act on suspicion alone.” He slides the files forward, right next to where Pain is standing, who is now looking at them like he’s beginning to like them.
“But you were right before about one thing,” Nathaniel continues. “We know about the system of karma. We know karma matters in the afterlife. And we know you have access to it.”
I squint at him. “What do you mean?”
“You can sense whether a living being has killed before,” he explains. “Or at least, that's what our sources claim.”
I glance back at the files. Then at the men. Then back at the files. Then at the ceiling, as if divine intervention might offer me an excuse to leave.
I purse my lips. I have never felt anything like that before. Then again, I’ve never exactly stopped mid-reaping to do a vibe check on a soul’s criminal record. I wasn’t here to play judge and jury—I just wanted to guide the dead where they belong.
“It's the first time I’ve heard of it,” I admit, shrugging. “I've never tried to judge a soul before.”
Nathaniel nods like that was the expected answer. “Then it’s time you try.”
I roll the idea around in my head.
Try to sense a murderer. Get my ex murdered in return. Sounds like a solid trade. A morally gray, mildly concerning, possibly unhinged trade—but a good one.
Because there's something they don't know. I haven't told them.
Once my killer dies, I don't need to be a Grim Reaper anymore.
Once my killer dies, I can go to the afterlife.
I can be truly free.
And whatever binds they think they have on me will vanish into thin air.
That’s why I look Nathaniel square in the eyes, straighten my spine, and flash my most innocent, “I’m definitely not planning something” smile.
“Alright,” I say, trying to crack my non-corporeal knuckles. “Let’s see what I can do.”
Give me those goddamn murderers.
The pull hits me again—sharp, insistent, and about as subtle as a drunk banshee.
Nathaniel and I are hunched over the table, knee-deep in the world’s worst nostalgia trip as I dredge up every miserable memory of my ex-husband. His notebook sits open, ink flowing in elegant, looping script—too refined for a man who spends his nights harvesting bodies like a professional.
It doesn’t fit him. And yet, it does.
