Do not fuck up my six-pack. Do you know how hard I had to work for that?

He does actually have six-pack abs, a narrow waist, and muscular legs that go on for days. All topped with golden blond hair, a proud nose, and full lips sandwiched between a manscaped moustache and beard. He looks like a model, like he could be one of those buff guys on a romance novel cover or GQ magazine.

Well, he could’ve . . . if he were still alive.

“Sorry, Chad ol’ buddy. But we need to know what happened. It’ll give your family some peace. Especially since you seem to be the picture of health.” I imagine he huffs in annoyance, only partially appeased by the compliment. But he quiets down, letting me get to work.

Inside, I chuckle a bit at my own stupid joke. The dead guy quieting down? Most people would think I’d truly lost it if I said that out loud, but my inner conversations are a side effect of long hours spent alone in a cold room as the county coroner.

It’s not a job I ever thought I’d have, to be honest, but it’s fitting in a way.

Drop-Dead Gorgeous.

The words from a few days ago come back to me. Sheriff Jeff isn’t the first and won’t be the last to call me that, but it still stings. Even if it serves my purpose to keep people away from my bad juju.

Shit, I’m not supposed to think about it. I look around for something wood to touch but only see metal instruments. And I don’t want to contaminate myself, either, so I cross my gloved fingers and send up a silent hope that everyone I know stays safe and healthy . . . and alive.

That last one is the most important one considering my history. I don’t just work with death all day. I’ve known it intimately over the years.

First, with my parents. They died in a car accident when I was thirteen, and I’d been taken in by my grandparents. A tragic start for sure, but that’s where things got interesting.

Grandpa had been the coroner for Williamson County for decades, and our dinner conversations were not the sort of light and fluffy things most people talk about over meatloaf. He ruined the CSI shows for me, complaining about inaccuracies and teaching me how it should’ve been done, whether I wanted to hear it or not. I can still hear his lame ‘dad jokes’ . . . Those procedures . . . could kill a man.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! And then Grandpa would drop his bifocals down his nose, mimicking David Caruso’s stone-cold stare.

In hindsight, I know he was trying to help me, but it was rough going for a while when I wanted to pretend Mom and Dad were just on a long trip and Grandpa had continually talked about death. But by the time I was sixteen and old enough to get a job, I was helping Grandpa out.

Nothing with direct contact, of course. He’d drilled the procedural rules into my head long before. But I’d drive him around, hand him instruments, and discuss his findings.

When he passed, I’d already gone to school, gotten a forensic science degree, and had been Grandpa’s right-hand worker for years. I was the obvious person to take over his role. My appointment as coroner had been uncontested, and I think as long I stay down here in my hidey-hole like a recluse, the county commissioner can just pretend I don’t exist.

That works both ways as far as I’m concerned. The county commissioner’s an idiot who treats budget increases for my office like I’m asking him to lie down on my table for a visit or two. So I ignore him and make sure my paperwork’s clean.

But I’m going to need some help sooner rather than later. This isn’t Grandpa’s day. The county’s twice as large now. That’s more stiffs than even a porn star could handle.

I pick up my scalpel and silently tell Chad ‘sorry’ once more. I’ve got the blade a scant millimeter from his skin when I hear a faint voice groaning, “Help me.”

I freeze, my eyes ticking up to Chad’s chest to look for any sign of movement. I point the scalpel at him and scold, “Don’t you dare, Chad. You are not nearly as entertaining as Mrs. Jones. And once was more than enough of that.”

But Chad’s still. Of course he is, because he’s dead. For real dead, not just with a soft, slow heartbeat that a nursing home doctor didn’t take the time to listen for.

Deciding I imagined things, I press the scalpel to Chad’s abdomen.

“Help meeeeeee . . .” a disembodied voice moans in a loud whisper. There’s no mistaking it or pretending I imagined that.

I look around the room, my heart skipping beats like an off-tempo drummer.

There are no shadowy corners to hide in because I’m not a stupid horror movie chick. The only people here are me and definitely-dead Chad. Even so, a shiver of fear runs down my spine, leaving tingly nerves in its wake.

“Hello?” I call out, holding the scalpel like it’s a weapon now instead of an instrument I’ve used dozens of times. “Is anyone here?”

Suddenly, an ice-cold hand grabs my ankle, sending me off balance. I scream, kick out, and slash at the black shadow crawling out from under the table with the scalpel all at the same time.

My foot makes contact, and the shadow lets out an unmistakably human ‘oof’. “Shit, Zoey. I think you broke a damn rib.”

I drop the scalpel to the table with a clatter and kick the not-shadow, but a black hoodie-wearing teenage boy. “Jacob! You scared the piss out of me! I could’ve hurt you! I could’ve fallen and gotten hurt!” I’m yelling loud enough to wake the dead, scowling murder, and threatening him with my foot again. “You’re lucky I didn’t slice your carotid or something!”