Grief-stricken by the murder of her twin, Keely
Morrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to eternal peace and a chance to
reunite with her sister. When Keely succeeds in taking her own life, she
discovers death isn’t at all what she expected. Instead, she’s trapped in a
netherworld on Earth and her only hope for reconnecting with her sister and
navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting reaper and a sardonic, possibly
unscrupulous, demon. But when the demon offers Keely her greatest
temptation—revenge on her sister's murderer—she must uncover his motives and
determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, both reaper and
demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that her every
decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.
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Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall
fear no evil, for they are with me.
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.
