Page 39 of Grim

“That is not a cat. That is a cryptid.”

“She’s a Maine Coon.” Rue waves dismissively, as if this explains or excuses anything. “Now leave her alone. She’s old, and she doesn’t like anyone except me.”

“I know the feeling,” I think to myself, though I must have voiced that thought aloud because Rue responds, “You getting soft on me already?”

She giggles, and the sound hits me in the best and worst way simultaneously. I cannot decide if it’s reminiscent of fingernails raking down a chalkboard or down my spine. I shudder again. I need to get myself under control here.

“That thing looks half dead.”

“And you look completely dead. Now are you going to help me figure some things out, or are you going to continue being a nuisance? For someone who claims to be invested in my eternal soul, you don’t act like it very often.”

She sits up fully, stretching, the movement drawing my unwilling attention to the delicate lines of her neck, leading down to the pale skin of her chest and the vertical scar that’s etched between what I imagine is a perfect set of—

I look away, scowling. Distraction. I need a distraction.

I take a deep breath, analyzing my current predicament. This is going to be a long week plus, no matter how I approach it. The carrot or the stick? Vinegar or honey? I think about Rue’s prickly personality and how to dull her spikes. Her fragile state seems to dominate her energy right now. If I push too hard, she may break. And while I do revel in my acidic side, you know what they say—kill ’em with kindness.

“How may I be of assistance to you on this part of your journey, mortal?”

“Don’t be glib with me.”

“I’m not. This is a lot to take in, and I need you to see it through. So, if I can help, that’s what I need to do.”

“What do youwantto do?” She edges.

“Don’t push it, Mayday. Ask your questions.”

She darts her eyes to the doorway before returning her focus to me. “Why am I able to see him?”

“The whys of the universe are food for philosophers. I am a doctor, Rue. Logistics, processes, and order—these are my areas of expertise. So, I cannot tell you why you see that poor lost soul banging away in your kitchen.”

“You are so obtuse.”

“Funny. Most people call me a-cute.”

“Geometry jokes? Wow,” she says with derision, then surprises me with, “What’s your angle?”

I try and fail to contain my laughter. “Just here to help you findproof.”

She side-eyes me.

I get us back on topic. “I can tell youhow.”

She gestures grandly. “By all means, illuminate me.”

I clear my throat. “You crossed over, Rue. When the heart stops beating, the soul separates from your physical form.”

I watch as her dark brows furrow together in thought.

“So, Dr. MacDougall was right? Twenty-one grams? Our soul has weight?” Rue exclaims while feeling her chest cavity in wonder—a not-altogether-unpleasant image.

I let out a long sigh because, of course, she brought up that hack. “If you’re referring to the deeply flawed experiment performed by that quack in 1907, then I would say this: old Duncan managed to come up with the correct conclusion despite his bunk science.”

“Even a broken clock tells the time twice a day,” Rue quips.

I tilt my head, mildly impressed. “C’est vrai, Mayday. This is true. Anyway, your essence began the process of dissociating from this realm, then reintegrated. However, it seems you spent enough time separated—for lack of a better term—that you returned to this formwith some of the attributes of OtherWorlders, namely that you can see the lost souls that still roam this plane.”

Rue is quiet for a moment, then lifts her chin. “What else can I do?”