Page 9

“Oh.” The fact that he would even joke about this, knowing I was just murdered by my last client, shows he does not respect me.

I cross my arms and sit back in my chair. My intelligence remains intact. He may have lost his though, or this must be some type of sick joke.

Why would the Grim Reaper need a lawyer? That doesn’t even make any sense. He’s the Grim Reaper for crying out loud. What legal matters could he possibly have to deal with? Did a soul sue him for intentional infliction of emotional distress? Because if that’s true, I would like to file a complaint against him as well.

The more I think about it, the more I become sure that this is definitely a joke.

Not a funny one.

He looks at me curiously. “‘Oh’? Are you not going to ask why?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Mr. Reaper, I’m not asking why, because I don’t have the patience to entertain your jokes. Can you just send me over to whoever oversees soul placement? I’m ready for Heaven. Request some wings for me while you’re at it.” I lean back in my chair, internally smiling at the thought of eternal peace.

I let out a yawn. It’s surprising how exhausted I still feel even with being dead. I can still feel the slight ache of being shot. I need a massage and a mimosa, ASAP.

He blinks at me, then his lip twitches as if he is trying to hold back his amusement. Again, I don’t see what’s funny right now.

“I’m confused. What makes you think you are going to Heaven?” he asks, his eyes full of mirth.

I chuckle and cross my legs. I play with a fleck of lint resting on the arm of the chair. The chair is immensely comfortable. At first glance it doesn’t seem like it would be, but I enjoy the velvety look and feel to it. He’s better at picking out furniture than he is at making jokes.

I reply, “What do you mean, what makes me think I am going to Heaven? If not Heaven, then where the hell am I going?”

He leans forward and tauntingly replies, “Hell, Ms. Parker. You’re going to Hell.”

My mouth gapes open, and I shake my head in disbelief. After all that I’ve done in life. After all I’ve been through. I want peace.

No.

I deserve peace. Not Hell. No way. No. He’s wrong. One hundred percent and completely incorrect. I’m astonished at how he could make such an error.

“You’re wrong. You got the wrong person. Go double check your paperwork. My name is Joyce Parker. That’s spelt J—"

He raises his hand and cuts me off. “I got the right person. You are Joyce Anne Parker. You are thirty-years old. You grew up in foster care. You have three cats, which by the way, is three too many. You—"

“That proves nothing!” I interject with a shout. “There are over seven billion people in the world. It is possible that you got the wrong Joyce. So double check. Now!” At this point, I am breathing heavily. Why am I out of breath? I’m dead. The afterlife really does suck. He does not have sufficient evidence to say that I am going to Hell. What have I done to deserve this?

I gasp loudly at a realization. My cats! Who is going to take care of my babies? This day just keeps getting worse.

He stares at me for five seconds then yanks open his drawer. He retrieves a folder and places it down in front of me. He sarcastically says, “Take a look, Joyce.”

I pick up the folder and notice my name at the top of the document. There is a picture of myself below my name. I internally groan. They really could’ve got a picture of me on a better day. My curls are super frizzy in this picture, and I look haggard. I probably pulled an all-nighter for one of my cases. The document has my place of work, where I lived, some random facts about me and a summary of my last days of life. I’m assuming this is what they use to keep track of the souls they need to collect.

“Collection reapers are provided with enough information about the souls they collect to ensure it is them. So, you tell me, is that not you?” he asks. I look up at him and squint my eyes. The more I interact with him, the less cute he gets. Men, both dead and alive, are so annoying.

Okay, it’s time for plan B.

I bow my head down and let my shoulders shake. Tears start coming out my eyes and I look up at him. I slowly take in a haggard breath. Oh yeah, I am definitely getting to Heaven. My acting skills have always been top tier.

Shakingly, I hiccup every other word, “Please Mr. Reaper, I don’t belong in Hell. You’ve got to help me out. Please.” I put my hands in front of me in a prayer position.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, placing his chin on his clasped hands. He sighs.

Yes! I got him right where I want him.

These cute brown eyes and big pouty lips can fool even the devil.

Shocking me, he responds, “Out of all the choices you could’ve made to try to get out of going to Hell, you choose fake crying? I expected better from you.”