Page 47 of Finders Reapers

The moment I stopped trying to get my father’s attention, the fist around my body loosened until I could breathe again.

I didn’t turn around as I stepped back. Backing away from the house, I got back in the Camaro and into rush hour traffic back to the strip.

Back to the hell that was my life.

I wasn’t just angry, I waspissed, and as I usually did when I felt like my emotions were too big for me to handle, I found the nearest Taco Bell. I ordered enough food to feed seven people. Which I fully intended on eating entirely by myself.

I didn’t realize until I had ordered and pulled around to wait that I had no money. The black Amex has driven away with Rome in his mustang.

Thankfully, there was so much trash and debris in the Camaro that I was able to find fifty dollars total by searching the ashtray, the glove compartment, and the driver's side door.

I also found several condom wrappers (ew), an empty Pocki box, and a pack of cigarettes.

Once I finally got my order, I sat in the parking lot on my own and stuffed my face full of Doritos Locos tacos.

I had no purpose. No direction.

I didn’t even have my own money.

All my life, I had been driven by a single-minded goal—subscribers. Content. Views. Likes. Followers. Quantifiable numbers on a screen that measured success.

All of that had been ripped away from me. I was a boat without an engine or a sail, stuck in the center of a lake, without a hope of rescue.

My anger earned nothing, save for indigestion. I couldn’t even go out and start reaping souls. I was a baby Reaper who hadn’t earned her scythe yet.

The more and more I thought about it, the more lost I felt, but something scratched at the back of my brain like a cat at a screen door.

You were murdered. A little voice inside of me rose up amongst the scribbles and screams.Don’t you want to know who? Don’t you want to know why?

My fists clenched. The voice was right, but I didn’t have the foggiest idea of where to start.

I could list all of my skills, but solving murders was not one of them.

I had watched a few episodes of Criminal Minds, but that was because Spencer Reid was hot AF, not because I had hopes of learning how to be an FBI profiler.

I stuffed another taco in my mouth.

I was good at the online stuff, I concluded, maybe I could start there. I chewed and wiped my greasy hands on the paper bag. At least that was a place to start.

I balled up my trash and resigned myself to going back to the Bellagio and rewatching the video of my own death when someone knocked on the window of the Camaro.

I turned slowly, conscious that I was covered in lettuce, sprinkles of beef, and my fingers were coated in Dorito dust.

I wanted to lie and say that I used to be put together, but I wasn’t. I was a qualified hot mess who managed to hide it for the hour I spent filming every day.

My brow furrowed as I blinked against the afternoon sun filtering through the glass. It took a moment to realize who had knocked on my window.

Mr. Bub, the strange man from the office.

As far as I knew, the stick insect-like man was a demon.

What the hell (pun intended) was a demon doing in a parking lot of a Taco Bell?

Not wanting to be rude because Demons kind of scared me, I wound down my window and forced a smile on my face.

It hadn’t escaped my notice that this was the first time I wasn’t surrounded by Maddox, Rome, Fletcher, and Jamal in some capacity. I was alone. Vulnerable.

Mr. Bub straightened his lapels. “Ms. Rossi.” He tipped his head genteelly before sniffing the air. “Are those tacos?”