“It is?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
Noah takes a long sip from his drink, slowing the conversation down again. “It might be nice to find someone who can look after Marlo with you.”
“That’s whatyou’rehere for,” I reply.
Noah rolls his eyes, but the wry smile on his face assures me that, when push comes to shove, he appreciates the position. I’m not entirely sure how it all happened, but one day I looked up and realized that we’d built ourselves a strange little family. I’m suddenly struck with a powerful desire to tell Noah about my other life, to confess it all andfinallyhave someone to talk to about the objectively bizarre shit that I go through on a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis. It would be so nice to not always be the—
I stop right there, cutting off the blooming weed of athought before it grows any larger and starts infecting the rest of my perfectly pruned mental garden.
My phone buzzes, cutting into my thoughts with a sharp, sudden jolt.
“Sorry,” I blurt, pulling out the device and revealing an unknown number. “This might be the birthday party mom.”
Noah gives me a gesture to pick up. I take the call.
“Hello?” I start, putting the phone against my ear.
“I need you to get me a body,” says a woman’s voice, calm and direct.
An icy chill shoots through my veins. I don’t react, however, forcing a smile as I lift my finger to Noah. My lips move in a silent, exaggerated face of annoyance as I scoot my chair back and stand.
One second, I mouth.
I weave my way through the crowded restaurant, adrenaline kicking my heart into overdrive.
“How thefuckdid you get this number?” I hiss. “Donotcall me.”
I half expect the voice to apologize, to immediately offer some fumbling excuse about a friend of a friend who passed along my contact info and how they didn’t know the rules yet. I’m prepared for an endless barrage of begging and pleading, groveling for me to stay on the line as they make their case.
But moments later, I realize eventhatwouldn’t make any sense, because nobody has my number in the first place. There’s nothing to pass along.
I erupt from the restaurant, now standing on a darkening street corner. A few other diners mill about, smoking and chatting, but it’s a far cry from the bustling eatery I’ve just emerged from.
“I run a flower delivery service,” I stress, “and if you’d like to order flowers, you’ll have to do itonline.”
“I’m ready to offer you five million dollars,” the woman says.
I laugh. “Fivemilliondollars? Yeah, right.”
“Five million dollars,” she repeats. “I’ll wire you ten percent up front so you know I’m serious.”
My mouth opens to shut her down again—to dismiss the very thought of this ridiculously large sum—but I suddenly find myself hesitating. Somehow, this woman has my personal phone number, and apparently, she knows exactly what business I’m in. There are plenty of things a stranger might try with that kind of sensitive information, but a silly little joke is not one of them.
The danger bells are ringing loud and clear. However, there’s another bell chiming along with them. It’s something even more primal than fear, a siren’s call that I can never seem to ignore.
Opportunity.
If this offer is genuine, I’d be an absolute fool to pass it up, and if it is some kind of trap, I’ll figure out a way to trap them back. I’m not afraid.
What if you get arrested? What if Marlo loses her mother?
There’s a stock answer for this, something I’ve been telling myself since I first stumbled into the dead-bodytrade. As deplorable as most people would find my actions, the legal system is hardly as rough on grave robbers as one might expect. Sure, there would be consequences, but compared to a bank heist, my worst-case scenario is pretty fucking solid.
That’s the whole point of this, after all. I’m taking advantage of the dead, not the living, and the potential legal repercussions reflect that simple fact.
“How did you get my number?” I repeat.
