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:
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.
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