Corpse Whisperer Sworn by H.R. Boldwood

Author:H.R. Boldwood [Boldwood, H.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Third Street Press

21

Nowhere to Run

It was a little after 3 a.m. by the time Ferris and I made it back to the hotel. We kissed goodnight and parted reluctantly, plodding to our separate rooms. Such a waste. Apparently, nothing gets the heart pumping like a zombie death match.

Who knew?

Back in my room, I uttered a silent thanks that Babs had left the bathroom light on, so I could find my bed. She’d also cranked the thermostat down to seventy degrees, a surprising and bizarrely touching compromise. In return, I decided not to tell her that although I tried, I couldn’t get the brain bitch on board with the whole ‘compartmentalization’ thing. We were making progress, and that was the important thing.

Ah, what the hell, I thought, nudging the thermostat down to sixty-eight. Baby steps, right?

I turned off the bathroom light and hopped into bed, praying for sleep, but between being wired for sound and Toussaint haunting my dreams, sleep seemed unlikely. The digital clock on the nightstand struck four. Then five. Sometime later, I drifted off, only to be jolted awake at 7:00 a.m. by Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony—Babs’ cell phone alarm. I mumbled that I’d meet them in the coffee shop at nine and threw the covers over my head. Babs left, and the door latched behind her.

Just one more hour, God. Please?

That extra bit of sleep and a hot shower made a new person out of me. I hummed, sipping a K-Cup of generic coffee, and watched the news as I got dressed. Serene, with my mind cranking on all cylinders, I felt focused and ready to take on the day. Halfway to the door, my phone rang, and the proverbial turd in the punch bowl bobbed to the surface.

Nonnie advised that we had two problems, both of which had been long in coming. One was totally Nonnie’s fault. The other was a simple mistake, a tragic oversight, not even remotely my fault. At least, that’s my interpretation, and I’m sticking with it.

“Headbutt, he pees through fence onto Winstel’s wisteria.”

“Don’t you remember? You trained him to do that so he’d stop peeing on your bushes.”

“But now, wisteria is brown. Winstels very unhappy.”

“Just handle it. Get creative. Plant something on our side of the fence in front of that flowering crap.”

“Then your bush be brown.”

“See? Problem solved. Next?”

Paper crinkled through the phone line. “You got letter from Hamilton County Treasurer’s Office. Oh,” she moaned. “Is very bad.”

“You opened my mail?”

“It say you owe three years back property tax.” Nonnie whistled. “Twelve thousand, eight hundred and fifty dollars, Miss Allie.”

“What? There must be some mistake.”

The brain bitch giggled.

“I don’t owe them money.”

Then it hit me. My father had been gone for three years. Had I ever paid property tax?

“You sure you no owe them?” Nonnie asked.

“Absolutely.” Hell, I didn’t have a clue. I’m in and out so much. Mail piles up. Shit gets lost. Please. I’m too busy saving the world from the freaking horde to keep track of such minutiae.

Determined to top my mound of misfortune with whipped cream and a cherry, Nonnie read on.

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