Page 21 of Melancholia

He looks at me, perplexed. “A bite? Why did that tip you off?”

“Because the teeth marks were curved the wrong way for him to have bitten himself. A-and it was so deep. There’s no way he could’ve done it.” The words leave me in a rushed whisper as my heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. “Please let me go⁠—”

“So you, what? Called it in?” At my nod, Amir sighs, though instead of looking pissed off, he seems somehow charmed by my words. “How very keen your skills of observation are.” He lets go of my neck, brushing past me and down the hallway as though he owns the mortuary.

I don’t follow him. Especially not when both dogs get up to do just that, and I instinctively jerk back out of their way. One dog glances at me, though neither of them gives me any more attention than that as they prowl down the hall after their master, like I don’t matter.

But I’d rather not matter than end up as their dinner, given the choice.

“Stupid of you,” Amir calls back lazily as he picks up my phone.

“Hey! That’s mine!” My protests fall on deaf ears as I follow him back to the room I mainly work in, wishing I still had my makeshift weapon. The only other thing I could grab would be small scissors or a scalpel, and somehow the trocar had seemed more intimidating.

“Obviously.” His voice is deadpan as he looks down at my phone, only to stop my music before pocketing it. “But you’ve already done something stupid once. I think I’ll prevent you from continuing the habit. Will you tell me now who’s here?” he asks, leaving me nonplussed. “You don’t need to pretend with me. I’ve seen you talk to them.”

The way he says it is strange. Amir is so casual in his observation, like I’m not suffering from some major emotional damage that never healed right.

“What?” I’m not trying to be funny, or even deflect. I’m just confused as hell by his words. When I’m back in the embalming room, I glance around for something. Anything I could use as a weapon against a man and two fucking dogs, but all I see are scrubbed-clean surfaces and evidence of my organizational skills around me. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Once again Amir just gives me a look. Unimpressed. Deadpan. Almost disappointed. “I’m not sure why you’re keeping it from me. Is it a secret, my little mortician?” Him calling me that causes a shiver to run up my spine, and I clench my hands at my sides, trying to ward off the feeling. “I’m not judging you or insulting you, and I won’t dismiss you for it. I am simply curious.” He blinks, glances down at the embalming table, then looks back at me. “Did Andrew come to talk to you that night? Was that who you were speaking to outside on the loading bay?”

“I…yeah,” I breathe. Even my therapist doesn’t talk about them like this. Like they really exist instead of just being figments of the broken parts of my mind. “But it’s not like you think.” Honestly, I have no idea what he thinks, so maybe it is.

“Of course,” he agrees, though it feels more like placation than actually believing what I’m saying. “I hope to hear more about it so I understand what to think.”

No. That’s my first thought, and I bristle defensively, though I think I keep the reaction off my face. Talking about it only makes me feel like shit once the other person inevitably treats me like I’m broken or stupid or unable to see what’s wrong with me. But I don’t say that. Not with Amir staring at me, drinking in my expressions like he’s waiting for something to crack.

Like he’s waiting for me to break. Again.

The silence stretches between us, making the embalming room feel too small and oppressive. “Now. The rules,” he murmurs suddenly. “Before I lose you completely tonight to the ghosts trying to steal your attention from me.”

My mouth opens, then closes, and I stand there awkwardly, too shocked to even flinch when a dog comes and noses my hand. Amir notices and dips his head almost approvingly at my lack of fear, though he calls the dog back with a quick whistle, pulling its attention from me.

“You will not tell the police about this.” There’s no question in his words. Just absolute certainty. “You will not tell Cecil or Hestia. You will not tell anyone living, do you understand me?” The allowance for me telling my ghosts isn’t lost on me, but just puzzles me that much more. Is he insulting me? Trying to humiliate me or make me feel worse about my problem?

He just sounds so normal about it.

My confusion is enough to keep me on my toes, and I incline my head slightly, out of habit more than agreement. “Will you kill me if I do?” I murmur, not sure why the hell I ask. Of course, he will.

“Probably. My threat about throwing you in that incinerator wasn’t an empty one. And it still stands.” He picks up Cecil’s pen from the desk behind him, running his fingers along it, then sets it down and pops open the lid of the donut box. What he sees inside has him giving me a quick, unimpressed look before he sighs and lowers the lid. “We have got to do something about your eating habits, little mortician. You cannot survive on sugar and carbs alone.”

If I weren’t so terrified, I’d argue that I absolutely can. But right now my tongue barely works and forming words is harder than it should be…so I just keep staring at him like I’m mute and a little dumb.

A lot dumb, given that I can’t figure out what to do in this situation, no matter how hard my brain works.

“And if threats to you aren’t enough, then I’ll have to make other ones,” Amir sighs. His words are dull and annoyed, like I’m forcing him to come up with something on the spot.

Like I’m the freaking problem.

“If you tell anyone, they die. Cecil will die. Hestia will die. Sheriff Collins will die. Then you will die,” he goes on so fucking casually. “And none of us want that, do we?”

Slowly I shake my head as horror turns my insides cold. How can he just threaten everyone so casually? “Were-were you lying then?” I whisper without thinking.

In response, I get a bemused look. “Lying? About what?”

“Hestia said you and she are really close. You grew up together. Y-you came to the mortuary all the time together. But you’d really kill her? Or Cecil? How?”

The black-haired man, well-dressed in a tailored shirt and pants, watches me for a few moments. Distracted, he traces the edge of the donut box with the pads of his fingers, and when he turns to glance at the desk, I see a few wisps of hair have fallen from the bun he has it up in. Somehow it feels wrong for him to be less than perfect, and almost illegal for his hair to do anything he hasn’t expressly permitted it to do. He seems like someone who enjoys—no, demands—absolute control over everything in his life.