Description:
Haunted by
memories of her murdered twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her only
ticket to eternal peace. But in death, she discovers the afterlife is nothing
like she expected. Instead of peaceful oblivion or a joyful reunion with her
sister, Keely is trapped in a netherworld on Earth with only a bounty-hunting
reaper and a sarcastic demon to show her the ropes.
When the demon offers Keely her
ultimate temptation--revenge on her sister's killer--she must determine who she
can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, the reaper and demon have been
keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true--that her every decision
changes how, and with whom, she spends eternity.
Chapter One:
I repeated my version of the psalm as I
watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a
distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts
had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept
hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her
life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said
or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are
you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell
me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming
back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God
existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard
a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know
if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.
I’d been the difficult one—much more than
Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d
get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my
life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my
left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently
after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood
how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they
wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I
needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed
sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict
pills of any sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming
suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more
than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything
for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I
might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a
stillness to it since her death.
I
shall fear no evil.
I couldn’t very well recite the first part of
Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I did
want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness
and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw
myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully
all around.
I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just
tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad
appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very
essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent
memory agonizingly unbearable?
Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I
managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind
he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the
remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or
vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further
liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting
blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose.
But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It
had become my personal mantra.
The words resonated in my parents’ oversized
bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in
the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same
tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I
searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made
the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson
streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and
the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me
to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just
wanted the darkness to call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my
body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing
Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to
bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d
imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I
reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears
welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here.
The other part feared she wasn’t.
Give
me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my
funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them?
Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?
No.
Stop. A voice in my head screamed.
Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my
uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I
could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this.
I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision.
Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention.
Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911?
I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use
a towel?
Mom
is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all over the bedroom
carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.
“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my
father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later,
I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d
almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time
with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons,
the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness
floated to the surface again.
“—okay, Keely.”
Cold.
So cold.
“I’m right here.”
There was no fear in me as the man bent
forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely
older. His eyes were so...blue,
almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and
the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak
smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and
cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating,
drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and
labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.
Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to
greet me.
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