To Catch Her Death (The Grim Reality Series Book 1)

by Boone Brux

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Jensen, but call me Candace.” She held open the door with her hip and extended her hand. “You must be Lisa.”

  “That’s me, the new recruit.” I gave her hand a quick shake, relief washing through me. I didn’t know how far up into my sweet junk she was going to get, but I felt much more comfortable discussing my girl problems with a female doctor. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Come on back.” She led me to the first room on the right and pulled a file from the pocket next to the door. “I’ll need to get some history before we start the exam.”

  “Great.” I sat in a plum colored chair that was incredibly comfortable and would look fantastic in my living room. She took her place at a small writing desk. “Doesn’t a nurse usually do this part of the exam?”

  “I’m the doctor, nurse, receptionist, and sometimes janitor.” She looked up from the file and smiled. “Besides new recruits and the annual medical exam on the employees, I don’t see a lot of action here.” She shrugged. “I used to be an ER doctor in Detroit. I loved it for a while but the constant crisis tends to take its toll. Here there’s rarely any drama and a lot of my day is free to work on other projects.”

  “Sounds like a dream job. I’d like getting paid big bucks and having everybody basically leave me alone.”

  “That surprises me. Most reapers like to be in the thick of things.”

  I held out my arms to the side. “Do I look like your typical reaper? I have three kids, one of them being a teenage girl. The most excitement I’ve had over the past year was the convenience store robbery that landed me here.”

  “Yes, I heard about that.” Thick black lashes framed her dark blue eyes. “I think you’re the first recruit I’ve had that accidentally became a reaper.”

  I sighed. “Once you get to know me you’ll see how fitting my initiation was.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure you’ll be a great reaper.”

  I harrumphed. “You’re either being incredibly diplomatic or gullible.”

  “Between you and me I think the reapers could use a little more estrogen on their team.” She tucked a hank of thick hair behind her ear and looked at the chart. “It seems to me reaping should be handled with finesse and compassion instead of acting as if they’re tossing a log on the fire.”

  “Oh, you’ve met Nate then?”

  She laughed again and nodded, but made no further comment on the subject. “So, first question. Are you pregnant or is there a possibility of being pregnant?”

  Several answers popped into my head but I refrained from saying them. “No.”

  “Do you have any old injuries that are giving you problems or periodically act up?”

  “Well, I sprained my ankle in a horrible gardening accident last year.”

  She looked up, her brows lifted. “A horrible gardening accident?”

  “I was talking on the phone and carrying a potted tomato plant out my front door when I tripped and fell.” It had been awful and humiliating. Repeating the sordid details again dredged up what a Mrs. Magoo I could be. “I landed on the pot, tossed the phone over the side of the patio, and buggered up my ankle.” Perhaps it was from the painfully embarrassing memories, but my ankle began to throb. “It aches when the weather changes or if I walk on uneven ground for a long time—or talk about it.”

  “Did the tomato make it?” she asked, scribbling a few notes down.

  “Nope, but it was a lost cause to begin with. My plants always die.” It was true, I’d yet to own a plant I was able to nurture and get to flourish.

  Continuing to write, she said. “That’s probably because you’re a reaper?”

  “Seriously?”

  She looked up. “Most reapers have a tough time with plants and small animals like fish.”

  “Wow, I always thought I’d inherited my mother’s anti-green thumb.” We never had plants growing up. When I got my own place I’d been determined to get a little green in my life. Alaskan winter days were dark and plants seemed like the perfect touch of life during the cold months. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the darn things to grow. Now I knew why. “Remind me not to clean my boys’ fish tank.”

  “I’ll make a note here to start you on physical therapy. I can help you strengthen your ankle.”

  “A physical therapist too?” I liked Dr. Jensen. She didn’t just listen to what I said, but seemed genuinely interested in helping me.

  “I started my medical career as an assistant to a physical therapist.” She smiled. “It made me want to become a doctor.”

  “Where would we do my physical rehab, here?” Lord knew I could use it on more than just my ankle.

  “Yes. One of the benefits of working at GRS is deep pockets. I’ve got better equipment and supplies than most hospitals in Alaska.” Her gaze tracked down the form. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  She made a checkmark. “Do you drink alcohol?’

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  I hated these questions. They always made me feel like I’d done something wrong. “Two to three times a week?”

  She scribbled another note. “Hard liquor? Wine? Beer?

  “Yes.” Realizing that sounded rather alcoholicish, I added, “But I prefer beer.”

  Another smile spread across her face. “A girl after my own heart.”

  The woman had sophistication coming out her ears and I had a difficult time picturing her downing a cold one. “I pegged you as a wine drinker?”

  “One of my claims to fame in college was being the two time beer drinking champion at my sorority’s Oktoberfest.”

  “Impressive.” The connection between Dr. Jensen and I tightened a little more. “But only two years?”

  She flipped around a picture frame that had been facing away from me and pointed to a Muffy-looking blond. “Belinda Mayer stole the title my senior year.”

  The good doc stood out amongst the sea of Barbies. “She looks really—perky.”

  “Don’t let her looks fool you. The girl could drink like a fish.” She set the picture back in its place and returned her attention to the questions. “Do you use any recreational drugs?”

  “Define recreational?” When she looked up with her eyebrow lifted, I rethought my answer. “No, besides the occasional swig of cold medicine to help me sleep, I’m clean.”

  “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

  “For the first six months after Jeff died I did, but I’m getting better.” I still woke some nights thinking he was beside me, but it didn’t cause me the jolt of depression anymore. Usually I just rolled over and fell back asleep. “No need for a prescription if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It was.” She ticked off another box. “Are you taking anything for depression?”

  “Despite the opinion of others, no.”

  “Tomorrow you’ll be given your psych exam, which includes a little chat with GRS’s psychiatrist. He’s good but a little pill happy if you know what I mean.” She set down her pen and looked at me. “My suggestion is to take the prescription if he writes one, toss it when you get home. It’s better to look cooperative than having to defend you mental competence.”

  “GRS has a psychiatrist on staff?” I shifted in my chair. “That makes me a little nervous.”

  “Let’s face it; this isn’t your ordinary nine-to-five. He’s a great therapist and you might find yourself needing to talk about something that happens on the job.”

  I widened my eyes. “Can’t I just come and see you?”

  She gave a little snort. “Psychiatry is not on my list of specialties, but I will admit I give my best advice after a few beers.”

  “Me too. I’m a veritable font of wisdom after a six pack.”

  There had been several times over the last year when Vella and I solved the world’s problems. With each bottle we became more brilliant. But, as with reality, by the morning my genius had been replace by self-loathing and a monster headache.

&nb
sp; She scooted her chair forward and pulled a blood pressure cuff off a hook on the wall. “You’ll need to take off your jacket.”

  Obviously there was no way I was getting out of revealing my sweatshirt. This was a good lesson for me. I’d dressed like a frump for so long I’d become immune to it. Already this job was forcing me to give myself higher standards. I slipped off the jacket and pushed up my sleeve, resting my arm on the chair. Candace didn’t comment on my poor clothing choice and I didn’t bring it to her attention.

  After positioning the cuff, Dr. Jensen pushed a button. The whir of the machine kicked in. The band tightened. I attempted a few calming breaths, trying to make my blood pressure as low as possible. I had no idea what state my health was in after the year I’d just gone through. I was willing to try anything that gave me an edge. The pressure reached that painful point when my hand felt three times its normal size.

  A second later a tiny puff of air hissed, releasing pressure every few seconds. I mentally tried to slow my heart rate. Not having any real medical training besides what I learned from television, I didn’t know if that had anything to do with my blood pressure, but figured it was worth a try. A quiet ticking clicked from the machine. The painful throbbing ebbed to a tolerable level. After another few seconds, the cuff gave a loud sigh and deflated.

  “One twenty over eighty.” She yanked on the strap, and with a loud rasp of Velcro, freed my arm. “Perfect.”

  Relief, and I’ll admit, a little surprise washed through me. “Great.”

  She hung the cuff back up and stood. “Now, your weight.”

  I groaned. “Do we have too?”

  “Sorry.” She indicated a fancy scale the size of my treadmill. “It’s required.”

  “That thing looks big enough to weigh livestock.” She laughed. I plodded to the scale, shoulders slumped. Before climbing on I kicked off my shoes. Like I said, any edge I could give myself. I doubted it would matter when it came to finding out just how fluffy I’d become.

  I stepped on and stared at the digital reading. The numbers scrolled quickly upward and landed on a nice round one hundred and fifty. “Holy crap.”

  Candace wrote the weight on the file. “Listen, it’s natural to put on weight during a time of grieving, but you’re young and the weight shouldn’t be too difficult to take off.”

  She sat back at the desk and I plopped down in the plum chair. “I didn’t realize I gained thirty pounds.”

  Instead of making me feel better, her consoling smile drove home just how much I’d played into the grieving widow. Though perhaps not consciously, I’d used putting my kids’ needs before mine a few times too often.

  “I guarantee you’ll drop some weight once you start your training.” She closed the file. “Until then, try to eat better. I recommend cutting out sugar, which includes limiting your drinking.”

  “This job just keeps getting better and better.” I let out a sigh.

  “Well, we’re done except for—” She opened her drawer and pulled out a plastic cup with a blue lid. “Getting a sample.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “There’s no way I’m pregnant.”

  “Drug testing.”

  “Oh—right.” I took the cup. “Bathroom?”

  “Straight across the hall.”

  I exited the office. The bathroom mirrored the other room with its elegant granite countertops and tiled floors. I really needed to give my house a makeover. The 1970’s harvest gold bathtub and black laminate counters hadn’t been changed since the day the previous owners installed them.

  I mentally added yet another project to my growing list. After doing my business, I handed Dr. Jensen the cup. My stomach growled. I hoped we were finished. I got cranky if I went too long between meals. And after facing the harsh reality of my weight, I was definitely feeling a little grouchy. “Anything else?”

  “All finished.” She walked me to the outer office. “I’ll set up a time to examine and test your ankle. From there I can set up a rehab program. In the meantime, I suggest taping it.” She reached behind the desk and pulled out a promotional pamphlet. “You can get this at most sporting goods stores and there’s a website that shows you how to properly tape up a weak ankle.”

  “Roger that, doc.” I took the brochure and stomach grumbled again.

  At that moment Nate opened the door. I had to wonder if he’d been listening outside. “Finished?”

  “Yep.” I turned back to Candace. “Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll call you later this week,” she said.

  “Everything okay?” Nate sounded a little too hopeful; reminding me again that he thought I wouldn’t make a good reaper.

  “Just fine.” I brushed past him. “I’m starved.”

  Not waiting for him, I headed down the hall, not exactly sure how to find my way out of GRS’s inner sanctum. I can be stubborn and my determination to prove him wrong took hold. I’d show Nate Cramer that I had what it took to be a damn fine reaper—right after I refueled with a jumbo basket of parmesan garlic fries.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nate offered to buy me lunch and we ended up across the street at a restaurant I didn’t particularly love. Despite Dr. Jensen’s suggestion to eat better, I’m pretty picky about my food and craved something cheesy and unhealthy. But Nate was adamant, even after I recommended a nearby diner that made the best burgers in town. Control freak.

  I perused the menu. Greens, grains, and things I couldn’t pronounce dominated the list. I ordered a Santa Fe chicken salad with extra ranch and a Diet Coke. At least I recognized the ingredients. Nate ordered the Asian chicken salad without the mandarin oranges. What’s the point?

  I toyed with my wrapped set of silverware “So, what’s up with you and Willow? You guys have a nasty breakup or something?”

  “There’s nothing between me and Willow.” He tapped his finger impatiently on the table.

  Oh, there was definitely something between the two co-workers. “Huh.” I slowly peeled the wrapper from around the napkin. My innate curiosity wouldn’t let the subject drop. “It sure looked like there was some history?” He didn’t reply. I glanced up. He was staring at a spot behind me. The joke was on him. I was immune to the silent treatment. I had a teenager. “Why do you hate her?”

  His eyes drifted back to me. “I don’t trust her.”

  “Because she’s a beautiful, independent woman?” Nate didn’t strike me as the type to be threatened by a successful woman. And I didn’t know if his opinion about me not making a good reaper was personal or a blanket judgment about women.

  “The reason I don’t trust her is none of your business.” He glanced behind me again, narrowing his gaze. “But I suggest you keep your distance from her. She’s bad news.”

  “Right.” Sure sounded like sour grapes. When he didn’t meet my eyes, I followed his gaze. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing.”

  I craned my neck and noticed two men sitting at a table across the restaurant. They appeared normal—really normal. As a matter of fact, if Nate hadn’t clued me in, I wouldn’t have noticed them. “Do you know those two?”

  “In a sense.” His eyes shifted to me. “They’re our competitors.”

  “Reapers have competitors?” Chancing another look, I assessed them. Both men appeared benign. One caught my eye and lifted his drink in silent acknowledgment. I smiled and turned back to Nate. “What kind of competitors?”

  “Angels.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  I’ve had a major thing for angels all my life. As a child they were grouped in the same category as mermaids and the little people I was certain lived in my walls. After Jeff’s death I took comfort in imagining them spiriting him away on heavenly wings. “That is so cool.”

  Nate snorted, which I took as an insult to my intelligence. “They are not cool. They’re a pain in the a—”

  “Hey.” I cut him off
before a bolt of lightning struck us for blasphemy. “If you’re going to insult the heavenly hosts do it when I’m not around.”

  “Trust me, they give as good as they get.”

  Trying to reconcile angels to the same level as us reapers went against all the beliefs I’d been raised with. Or at least the ones I glamorized. “I’m sure you’re wrong. Angels are all loving.”

  “You newbies are so naïve.” He sat forward and lowered his voice. I leaned away from him, fairly certain he was about to burst my bubble. “Not all angels are jerks, but those two are. They’re guardian angels.”

  I turned and looked at the men again. Both were staring at me and smiling. Did they have x-ray hearing or some kind of all-knowingness?

  “God, would you stop doing that?”

  I faced Nate again. “Sorry, but this is all new to me.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Go on.”

  “Guardian angels interfere with our reaping. Their job is to save their charges.”

  Relief washed through me. “Wow, that’s so amazing and awesome.”

  “No.” His head shook vigorously. “Not amazing, Lisa. People are meant to die at certain times. These guys come in with their free pass from Heaven and muck it up.”

  “Free pass?” In addition to all the paperwork and exams GRS made a new reaper go through, they obviously needed to incorporate an Afterlife 101 class. I made a mental note to bring that up to management.

  “It’s all part of the Free Will Project, which is stupid, in my opinion.”

  I glanced at the ceiling, waiting for that bolt of lightning. “Easy with the insults.”

  “People are going to die. Sometimes I have to attempt a reap three or four times before I get the soul.”

  “Wow, militant much?” I leaned forward, giving Nate my best mom face. “Souls aren’t a prize you collect to reach quota. This is somebody’s life we’re talking about.”

  “You’re going to lecture me on what a soul is?”

  He had a point. I really didn’t know what I was talking about. I’d only officially been a reaper for a few hours. “Fine, then why are they here? Just having lunch? Are they human like us?”