Page 50 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

Tristan nods. “And the bones. By uncovering Bruce’s bones, he’s not only weakened Bruce, but if Bruce solves his unfinished business and crosses into the light, no one is guarding the doorway when the eclipse comes.”

“No one to stop him coming through,” I mutter.

“That’s it.” Tristan nods with a frown. “But that still doesn’t answer why Bruce though.”

We both turn back to Death, who watches us with a satisfied smile that’s borderline smug tugging at his lips.

He stands slowly. “And that is why I chose you,” he states.

“But why Bruce?” Tristan repeats. “That’s the one part I don’t get.”

“It’s the bookshop, like I told you.” Death buttons his suit jacket and smooths the expensive-looking material. “Find out how the portal came to be, and you find out why it has to be Bruce.” He gives Tristan one last smile, the kind a teacher might give an exceptionally bright student. “It’s all about the bloodlines.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he’s disappeared again. “I hate it when he does that.”

“No kidding.” Tristan frowns.

I glance around the room. The air is warm and humid, but the tiled floor helps keep it cool enough that it’s not uncomfortable. It makes a nice change from the constant downpour in London.

Alejandro’s voice curls around us, blending seamlessly with the complex notes he coaxes from his guitar. I wish I had my crutches so we could go outside and take a walk in the sunshine. I know Tristan has always wanted to visit Mexico, and it would be nice to get out and just have an hour where we’re not surrounded by impossible tasks and crises.

“What are you thinking about?”

“That it would be nice if we could stay here a while,” I admit.

“Be careful what you wish for.” Tristan’s mouth curves in amusement. “Because unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s just abandoned us in Mexico without passports or money and neither of us are wearing shoes.”

12

“I’m beginning to feel like a marriage guidance counsellor. Why don’t you just go and talk to him, Dusty?” I sigh as I pluck a tissue from the box.

“Because I’m busy helping you,” she declares stubbornly.

Holding the tissue, I pause. “No, you’re not.”

We stare at each other until my brow raises in challenge and she looks away with a disgruntled huff. Blowing my nose—and ignoring the way the sound echoes in the large, tiled room—I drop the tissue in the bin. Washing my hands, I pull a pair of disposable gloves from the dispenser hanging on the wall next to the sink.

“I am,” she sniffs haughtily. “Just because I’m not hacking up bodies like I’m Jeffery Dahmer doesn’t mean I’m not helping. I’m your spirit guide.”

“In training,” I add as I cross the room to the wall of small, square, stainless steel doors. “And you ignore that title often enough when it suits you.”

“Well, right now it suits me to do my job.” She crosses her arms and eyes me defiantly.

Rolling my eyes, I grab the clipboard from the hook and scan down the page for the next job to be ticked off the list. Noting the door number, I grab the trolley, align it under the correct hatch, and open it up. Instead of sliding the drawer out, I grab the top corners of the bag and pull, allowing the dead weight to drop onto the trolley.

“Stop avoiding the subject.” I wheel the body over to the table and lift one end of the long bag. “And a little assistance here wouldn’t go amiss, you know, since you’re supposed to be helping me and all.”

Dusty huffs and with a flick of her hand the heavy bag suddenly shifts across onto the table.

“Thank you.” I move the trolley back across the room and park it next to the bank of refrigerators. “All I’m saying is, you should probably go see Bruce. He’s probably having a rough time at the moment. I get that you’ve got some pretty conflicting emotions right now because you seem convinced he’s still in love with someone he was seeing forty years ago, but he’s never mentioned him before so maybe you’re reading too much into it.”

“Whatever,” she mutters from the opposite side of the table. “It’s not like I’m in love with him.”

“Except you kinda are,” I point out.

She deflates—actually honest-to-god deflates, like someone has just let all the air out of her.

“I want to see him,” she says miserably, then turns away and stares at the window as the rain hammers restlessly against it. “I miss him.”