Page 11

CHAPTER FOUR

Margot

Death doesn’t scare me.

Silence does.

Not the silence of the dead. Not the hush of the home I grew up in. Or the prep room where I prepare the dead for one last goodbye from their loved ones. I’m comfortable with all of those variations of silence.

It’s the silence from Jigsaw.

The kind that coils around my heart and whispers, he’s not coming back .

I thought we’d moved past whatever reservations he had about being in a relationship. We’ve said “I love you.” I’ve spent time with his motorcycle club and gotten along with almost everyone. Or so I thought.

So why did he bolt a few nights ago, muttering something about a work emergency, and disappear? No texts. No calls. Nothing.

I sent a hope everything’s okay text the next morning.

The only thing keeping me from freaking out that my boyfriend’s dead in a ditch somewhere is the brief response he sent back— Busy but okay.

What does that even mean?

Should I send Shelby a text? Something casual? Hey, girl, I know we only send each other the occasional cat meme, but what’s up? Happen to know where my boyfriend is?

No. I shouldn’t do that. Should I?

She’s engaged to Jigsaw’s best friend, so she might know what’s going on. Or would contacting her cross a line into psycho girlfriend territory?

Does it matter? I’m actually worried about him.

“Margot?” My father taps his knuckles against the closed door and pushes it open. “We’ve got a pickup. At the Briarwood Home.”

I spin in my desk chair to face him. “Now?”

“Yes. A Mrs. Beckett. Nursing said she passed this afternoon.” He leans against the frame. “The family wants a quick turnaround. I know you’re busy with Mr. Hall’s arrangements but?—”

“No, I’ll handle it.” I’ll have to obsess about Jigsaw later.

“Paul will go with you.” He gestures toward the hallway. “I’m still working on?—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.”

Death doesn’t care about my love life.

“Speaking of Mr. Hall,” my father says. “Now that we have another event to plan—although I suspect this one will have far less fanfare than the biker’s—would you mind checking to see if April has some availability this week?

We could use an extra set of hands. And I’d rather give your friend the work before calling in someone else. ”

“Sure. I’ll reach out to her.”

I hurry upstairs and change into something more comfortable, but still professional, for a body removal. Stretchy black pants and a black knit top with a dark floral pattern. My goal is to blend in. Once we’re there, I’ll slip into my protective gear.

Paul’s waiting downstairs in a full suit and tie. Neat and polished as always. “Ready?” He holds up the van keys and jingles them in my direction. “I’ll drive.”

“Fine by me.” I eye his suit. “It’s after hours. You’re making me look underdressed.”

He chuckles. “To be honest, I just climbed into the same suit I wore for the Miller consultation this morning.”

“Ahhh, efficient laziness,” I tease. “Aren’t you clever.”

He grins, unbothered, and we share a laugh then head into the parking lot.

The drive to Briarwood is short. Paul distracts me with his insistence on singing along to Megadeth’s à tout le monde over and over. At least his off-key warbling takes my mind off of obsessing about Jigsaw’s silence.

“Here we are.” Paul shifts the van into Park near the staff entrance and glances over at me. “Ready?”

“Yup.”

He holds up a sheaf of paperwork. “All set.”

The scent of antiseptic and burnt coffee greets us in the narrow hallway. Could be worse. Paul stops to speak to a nurse. As far as nursing homes go, Briarwood is one of the nicer ones in the area. I still can’t imagine ever sending my father to a place like this.

“Room 209.” The nurse flashes a friendly smile at Paul. “Do you need help?”

“No, we’ve got it. Thank you, though,” Paul says, ever the professional.

“I think she likes you,” I whisper as we head toward Mrs. Beckett’s room.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah? She’s cute. Not sure if now’s the time to shoot my shot, though.”

“Probably not.” I steer my end of the stretcher down the wide hallway. Thankfully, it’s late. No residents linger in the hallway to watch as we remove their neighbor.

The door to 209 is shut tight. Paul twists the knob and pushes it open. The room’s larger than the average hospital room, but not by much. A tall, rectangular window looks out on a shadowy courtyard. A simple hospital bed in the middle.

And a man in blue scrubs looming over the bed with his back toward us.

Paul and I share a look. We both clear our throats.

The man jumps away from the bed, flipping the sheet up as he goes.

He bends over slightly…doing heck only knows what before he turns and faces us.

He’s handsome but creepy, like a waxy Ken doll come to life.

Except, unlike a Ken doll, and judging by the tenting of his scrub pants, this guy seems really excited to be hanging out with the poor departed Mrs. Beckett.

“I, uh, was just saying goodbye.” The man waves his hands behind him. “She was a nice lady.”

“Yeaaaah.” Paul draws out the word and scowls. “We’ve got it from here,” he says, voice sharp and protective. “You need to go.”

The guy blinks and fiddles with his scrub top, but it’s not long enough to conceal the evidence of how much he enjoyed his goodbye. What the hell would he have done to Mrs. Beckett if we didn’t show up?

Something cold and familiar simmers inside of me. It would be so easy to find out where he lives…maybe pay him a visit. Add a piece of him to my collection.

My fingers twitch at my side.

No. He doesn’t fit my criteria. He’s vile for sure. But… no .

Murder isn’t the answer when I’m raw and restless, looking for something to distract me from my personal dilemmas.

Paul stares the man down while he slinks out of the room.

“Fucking creep,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I hurry to Mrs. Beckett’s side. She’s frail and tiny. Maybe no more than eighty pounds. The white facility sheet is tucked under her arms. Her jaw’s slightly slack, one hand turned palm-up on top of the blanket.

“I’m sorry about that,” I whisper. “We came as soon as we could.”

Paul unstraps the cot while I double-check the name on the wrist tag and the whiteboard by the bed. Standard procedure. No mistakes.

“Confirmed,” I say softly.

Together, we lift and gently transfer her to the cot.

Her limbs shift under the sheet, light as paper.

I drape a fresh cover sheet over her, tucking it smoothly around her shoulders.

Then I fasten the safety straps—shoulders, waist, and legs.

I probably could’ve done this pickup solo, but after encountering that creep, I’m glad I’m not alone.

As we pass the nurse’s station, the woman we spoke to on our way in lifts a hand in a polite wave.

Paul slows the stretcher to a stop. “I’m going to talk to her.” He lowers his voice. “Give her a heads-up about Mr. Creepy-pants.”

I shudder at the memory. “Go ahead, I’ll get her loaded into the van.”

“You sure?”

“If not, I’ll text you.” I hold out my hand for the van keys and he passes them to me without question.

Outside, the air’s chillier, more ominous than before. The stretcher rattles as I navigate over the rough pavement.

The back doors of the van squeak as I open them wide. I engage the ramp, then guide the stretcher inside, and lock the wheels in place. I check that she’s secure, my fingers lingering on the buckle of one restraint.

“You’re in good hands, I promise,” I whisper. “My family will take care of you.”

I shut the doors and double-check the latch before stepping and turning toward the building. The lot’s well-lit and silent. No sign of Paul yet.

I pull out my phone and check my texts.

Nothing from Jigsaw.

“You all right?” Paul’s voice slices through the quiet.

My body jolts and I shove my phone in my pocket like it’s contraband. “Yup. How’d it go?”

He jerks his head toward the van, his footsteps soft against the pavement. His gaze flicks toward the building behind us. Can’t blame him for not wanting to broadcast his dating life all over the parking lot.

He glances in the back, gives a small nod, and climbs into the driver’s seat without another word. Doesn’t double-check the restraints. Doesn’t even glance at the straps. Paul knows I did it right.

I slide into the passenger seat and toss him the keys.

“Sooo?” I prompt, buckling in. “Did you ask for her number?”

He starts the engine, his expression unreadable for a second, then a slow smirk tugs at his mouth. “Now that you’ve found love, you sure are a matchmaker.”

Isn’t that a kick in the stomach.

I stare straight ahead. “Sure, that must be it,” I say, voice flat. “I can’t just want to see my cousin happy?”

“I’m kidding, Margot.” He reaches over and pats my leg. “Actually, I told her about Happy Pants guy. She was really upset. They’ve complained about his behavior before, but the owner of the facility doesn’t seem to care.”

Hmmm, escaping justice is one of my criteria. Maybe I should reconsider putting him on my list after all.

“Figures.”

“You know I hate that shit,” he grumbles. “The dead can’t protect themselves.”

We both do. And unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time we’ve walked in on someone treating a body like an object instead of a person.

“I know,” I say, my voice quieter than before.

Paul taps his thumb against the steering wheel. “She gave me the owner’s number. I’ll probably pass it off to your dad—he’s got more pull. Maybe it’ll actually go somewhere if he’s the one to lodge the complaint.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Anyway,” he says, easing out of the creepy conversation, “I didn’t even have to ask for her number. She gave it to me. We’re supposed to get together next week.”

“Oh good!” I clap my hands together and bounce in my seat like a child. “This week is nuts. Hopefully things are calmer next week.”

“Right? She’s a nurse, so I think she understands the hectic schedule.”

Grinning like a hopeless romantic, I stare out the window.

“So,” Paul says after a beat, “are you almost done with all the Hall family’s requests? Think your biker boyfriend and all his buddies are going to show up for the service?”

That’s enough to wipe the smile from my lips. “I’m not sure.”

Jigsaw was helping me locate a Harley Davidson Hearse Funeral Chopper from the list Mr. Hall’s daughter gave us. Thank God Jigsaw left his notes so I could finish where he left off.

Almost like he did it intentionally.

Like he planned to vanish from my life.