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“I support lunch.”

Fair.

Sheriff struts toward the doorway with the confidence of a criminal protected by powerful women.

Mourning appears from the hall.

“There you are.”

I point. “Your bird robbed me.”

“He has instincts.”

“For turkey?”

Vesper appears behind her sister wearing purple glasses shaped like bats even though Halloween ended months ago.

“Predator recognizes predator.”

“He is six pounds.”

“Power comes in many forms.”

Sheriff crows.

I close my eyes.

This is my life now.

And somehow, impossibly, ridiculously, I love it.

The dead man on my table is not actually a Grave Prowler this time. Mr. Hollis Avery spent forty-two years repairing tractors, hated ties, requested bluegrass at his viewing, and apparently told his daughter that if anybody put rouge on him after death, he would come back and haunt the funeral home personally.

His daughter told Mercy.

Mercy told me.

So I am restoring the bruising along his cheek without making him look like he discovered blush in the afterlife.

It is delicate work.

Real work.

Mine.

I take a clean sponge and soften the last edge of color.

Mercy steps beside me and studies Mr. Avery’s face.

I try not to hold my breath.

Three months have not cured that.

Finally, she says, “Good.”

That is practically a standing ovation.

I grin. “Just good?”