Working Stiff

shrugged. “It’s not all about my love life. Or lack of one.”

“I’m just saying, he’s hot.”

“What about married did you not understand?”

“There’s married and married, in my expert opinion.”

“Expert?”

“Honey, I work in a bar. I am an expert.”

That was … a good point. Bryn let it pass. “It’s not about Joe, and it had nothing to do with … It was work. Bad day at work.”

“Oh. So … it was disgusting, right?”

“Very.”

“I think I’d rather talk about your lack of a love life. Seriously, there isn’t anybody you’re interested in? Come on, Bryn. Humor me.”

“Nobody,” she said, but then she sighed and shook her head. “He doesn’t care about me. Not that way.”

“Is he male?”

“Obviously.”

“Is he straight?”

“As far as I know.”

“Then he cares, sweetie. You don’t have any idea how sexy you are, do you?”

Bryn laughed, and it sounded a little wild, a little despairing. “I am so very far from sexy right now, Annie. And how did we get on this subject again?”

“Because you wouldn’t discuss dinner?”

“Well, I’ll discuss it now. I don’t have much time, though. I’m sorry, but I have to go out tonight. An appointment. I need to be there by eight thirty.”

“Cool.” Annie squeezed her and let go. “We can go out tomorrow night. I made bruschetta and pasta primavera; I walked over to the store and stocked your fridge. You’ll love it.”

And Bryn did. For the first time in a long time—since before that awful moment when her whole life had ended and restarted—she tasted food, really tasted it. Crisp, nutty bread, fresh chopped tomato, basil, garlic, balsamic vinegar, oil … and the pasta, perfectly cooked al dente. Annie offered wine, but Bryn refused, on the grounds of driving. They talked. They laughed. They mocked each other. They did dishes and splashed each other, half out of spite, half out of joy.

Sisters.

Bryn felt the darkness and horror slip away, just for a while.

It all passed in far too short a time. By eight, they were sitting on the couch again, and Annie was flipping channels on Bryn’s TV. “What time do you think you’ll be back?” she asked. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders. She’d showered, and her hair had fallen into golden brown ringlets, perfectly shaped. When Bryn was ten and Annie was eight, Bryn had given her sister a deliberately awful haircut with a pair of safety scissors out of sheer envy—and in truth, she still hadn’t quite gotten over coveting those curls.

“Why? You going to wait up?”

“Are you going out on a date?”

“I wish. No.”

“Are you going to be draining body fluids out of some poor dead person?”

“No, and God, you are morbid.”

“Me? You’re the one with the job in the death business.” Annie made air quotes around it. “I’m sorry, and I don’t want to judge, but it just seems really weird to me.”

“It’s not weird. It’s …” Bryn remembered Riley’s words, back in the prep room. “It’s something sacred, in a way. We’re the last people to touch someone in this world, and that’s important. We’re all going there, in the end. Wouldn’t you like there to be someone there to care for you?”

Annie turned toward her, eyes wide. She didn’t speak. Finally, she settled against the cushions and refocused her attention on the TV. “So you don’t know when you’ll be back.”

“God, Annie, are you planning on throwing a party while I’m gone? No, I don’t know. A couple of hours, probably. Stop questioning me.”

“You always ask me these things.”

“I’m your older sister. I’m supposed to.”

“So who are you meeting? Your mystery man?” Annie nudged her with her shoulder. Bryn nudged back, harder.

“None of your business.”

“Oh, come on. If I’ve never met him, what does it matter?”

“He’s … complicated,” Bryn said slowly. “And very … complicated.”

“You are the worst. Okay, just answer this. Is he hot?”

“I don’t know.” She didn‘t, honestly. He was; then he wasn‘t. She didn’t know how to view Patrick McCallister objectively at all. “I suppose so.”

“What’s his best feature?”

Annie probably wanted her to say his ass, or his abs, or his eyes, or something like that, but Bryn thought for a second and said, “His certainty.”

Her sister laughed outright. “You are insane—you know that? No wonder you can’t get yourself laid properly.”

For answer, Bryn grabbed the remote and put on a reality show she knew her sister hated, and as Annie breathlessly chased her around to grab the remote, she knew, deep down, that it was all going to be okay. Somehow, it was all going to be okay.

It had to be.

Eight thirty came far too soon.

By nine thirty, sitting with Joe Fideli in his black sedan, she wasn’t so sure of a positive outcome. McCallister was in the backseat, hidden behind the tinted windows; he’d changed the white tee for a black knit shirt, but kept the jeans. She’d expected him to be … different, but from the moment she’d entered the car at the mortuary, she’d sensed that McCallister’s armor was back up, and in full force. He was polite, but cool and slick as glass.

“I don’t like this,” Bryn said. “What if he wanted me to come alone?”

Joe shrugged. “I think it’d be more suspicious if you didn’t bring your bodyguard. If he’d meant for you to come alone he’d have said so. After all, you’re a woman, no offense to your self-defense skills, and this is a nasty part of town at a dangerous time of night. You brought backup. That’s acceptable behavior to him.”

“You act like you know him.” She meant it as a joke, but as soon as she said it, her brain fired off into wild, improbable directions, and she took in a sudden breath.

Joe interpreted all that flawlessly. “You think I’m the leak from Pharmadene?” He laughed outright. In the backseat, McCallister echoed it. “Way to think out of the box, Bryn, but no. No way I could pull it off, and I got no use for anybody who’d make money this way anyway. Patrick knows that.”

“You know the system. And you could rip off the drugs; don’t tell me you couldn’t,” she said, obscurely offended. “You’d probably get a kick out of doing it, too—stick it to the evil corporation and all.”

That sobered him quickly. “Pharmadene’s got some rot in it, no question about that, but it’s also full of smart, idealistic people. They save lives, Bryn.”

“I saw today what they do. It’s hideous.”

“This thing, this drug … it’s not what they do. Or did. Returné was an accident that came up while they were trying to find a way to nonsurgically remove cancers. Now it’s like a cancer of its own inside the company, eating away. And I—” He stopped himself—or, more accurately, McCallister’s hand clamping down on his shoulder stopped him. Joe swallowed the rest of it. “I just think Pharmadene’s got some good in it,” he finished, which she was sure wasn’t what he’d intended. “I think you should give it a chance, Bryn.”

“You really think I have a choice?” Bryn muttered. “So am I doing this or not?”

“Yes,” McCallister said from the backseat. “It’s time. All you need to do is get out, walk into the building, and leave the bag in the first open place you see, then come right back. I don’t care what you see or what you hear, you leg it back here as fast as you can. If you take more than two minutes before you’re back in our field of vision, Joe