The Grim Reaper's Dance

“Oh, great. And how will you respond if Bailey comes in and looks around? Chill her to death?”

“No.” Death’s voice held exaggerated patience. “I’ll tell you.”

“Oh.” Casey slid off the ball cap and waited.

“What?”

“Can you at least turn around?”

With rolling eyes Death spun toward the wall. “You are so sensitive these days. Are you having body-image issues?”

Casey pulled off her bloody sweatshirt. “I’m not— Never mind. How about you just pretend to respect my privacy?”

“Whatever. Maybe I’ll just go see what your little friend is doing, instead.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Casey watched Death walk through the closed bathroom door before she stepped into the shower. She stood under the steaming water for a long time, shampooing her hair twice and scrubbing her body roughly with the washcloth. The cut on her shoulder looked a little better than the day before, even with it re-opening after Davey’s. The cleaning at the hospital had done wonders.

By the time she was done, her skin felt raw, and after patting it dry she slathered it with the scented body lotion on the counter. She rooted through the cupboard and found a large Band-Aid for her shoulder, and even some of that sticky wrap-around gauze. Finally, she pulled on Bailey’s sister’s clothes, which fit remarkably well, except for the length in the jeans; she was obviously taller than Casey, so Casey simply rolled up the hems.

“Feel better?” Bailey asked when Casey rejoined her in the kitchen.

“Much. Thank you.” Casey put her bag of papers under her chair.

Death was nowhere to be seen.

Bailey stuck a grape in her mouth. “No problem. Heather’s clothes fit you all right, huh? Hope you don’t mind pink. That’s pretty much all she owns.”

Pink wasn’t, in fact, one of Casey favorites, but she wasn’t about to complain. “What can I do with these?” She held out her old clothes.

Bailey wrinkled her nose. “Burning barrel. Here.” She rummaged under the sink and held out a grocery bag, into which Casey stuffed the clothes. “I’ll take them out while you’re eating.”

“It sure smells good in here.”

Bailey brightened. “Spaghetti. Sounded good to me, so I hope you like it.”

It took a few minutes for Bailey to finish cooking, so Casey picked up the newspaper, which sat on the counter. Nothing on the front page about the accident or Wainwrights’ Scrap Metal, but page three held a little of both. Investigators Unsure of Accident’s Cause, one article said, and explained that it was a mystery as to why the construction vehicles were on the road. It described Casey’s appearance and reiterated that she was wanted for questioning, as were a group of men who had been at the accident site.

Yeah, well, good luck finding them, Casey thought. Or me.

But there was more.

“It was so strange,” Bethany Briggs said to reporters at the crash site. “I stopped to help, and the woman had a man in a headlock. She let go when I arrived, and pushed him out of the way. I don’t know what she was doing, but I guess she was in shock. I mean, why else would she be wrestling with someone right after being in an accident?”

Casey rubbed a hand across her eyes. She’d forgotten about her Good Samaritan in the bright red suit, and hoped she wasn’t going to become a problem. There wasn’t anything more from Ms. Briggs in the piece; just the usual stuff about law enforcement keeping the public up-to-date.

She looked at the next article.

Junk Yard Trespassers Surprised

When David Wainwright, owner of Wainwright Scrap Metal and Recycling, heard his dog barking, he didn’t think much of it until he saw the men on his property. “They just showed up,” he said. “I don’t know what they were doing there.”

Wainwright and Wendell Harmon, a mechanic visiting the office, looked outside in time to see the two men confronted by a third, who immediately attacked the other two.

“He just went crazy,” Harmon said. “We couldn’t hear anything they were saying, and we weren’t about to go outside. Instead, we called 911.”

Wainwright, Harmon, and Rachel Inskeep, the scrap yard’s secretary, watched from safety as the third man incapacitated the other two.

“As soon as we heard sirens,” Harmon said, “the man took off.”

The two men, whose names are yet to be released, were taken to the local hospital, where they remain under a physician’s care. Police are waiting to question them further.

Casey set down the paper. The men and Rachel had completely covered for her.

“Ta da!” Bailey set a steaming bowl of pasta on the table, dumped a bag of salad into a bowl, sliced some bread, and set out the grapes. While Casey filled her plate, Bailey took the bag of clothes outside. Casey dove into the food, pushing aside her anxiety. Bailey soon came back and ate her share, as well.

When they were done, Bailey put away the leftovers while Casey placed the dirty dishes in the high-efficiency dishwasher. Bailey wiped the table and threw the dishrag into the sink.

“Ask for a tour.” Death’s breath was cold in Casey’s ear. “You’ll find something interesting.

Casey raised her eyebrows and mouthed, what is it?

“Ask,” Death said.

“So,” Casey said. “Any chance I could get a tour?”

Bailey shrugged. “Sure.”

She took Casey through the sunroom, the den, the living room, the rec room, the master bedroom and bath —which were large enough to comfortably serve an entire family—and the entertainment room, which housed an enormous flat-screen TV and surround sound. In each room Casey looked to Death, who hung back with crossed arms, head shaking “no.” Finally, they stood in front of a closed wooden door, and Death’s face became more animated.

“Dad’s office,” Bailey said, and swung open the door.

Casey gasped. All of those corner offices shown in movies or talked about in business circles, had nothing on this place. Bookshelves lined what walls weren’t taken up by floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on miles of golden grain. Thick carpet lay under Casey’s stockinged feet, and colorful artwork dotted the room—paintings, sculptures, even a quilt over the back of an antique sofa. A fireplace with dark red brick sat cold and clean along the far side of the room, with two comfortable—and beautiful—chairs in front of it.

“Does your father spend a lot of time in here?”

“Not most of the year. During the winter he’ll use it, but the rest of the time he’s too busy. He doesn’t believe in hiring other people to do work he can do himself.”

Casey wandered to a table that displayed an array of photographs and thought of Evan’s family picture, which she’d transferred from her old clothes to the pocket of the jeans she was now wearing. On the table were pictures of Bailey’s family throughout the years—as evidenced by Bailey’s changing form and style, as well as her sister’s— photos of dogs, and one of Bailey’s father with another man, standing beside a tractor.

“My grandpa,” Bailey said. “Dad took over the farm from him. He died a few years ago.”

Casey didn’t hear the sadness she would acquaint with losing a grandparent, and Bailey’s face showed nothing. “You weren’t close to him?”

Bailey shrugged. “He worked all the time. I didn’t see him much. Kinda like Mom and Dad.”

“Who’s this?” Casey pointed to a photo of Bailey’s dad with a group of men, sitting around a table at a restaurant.

“Dad’s friends. Other farmers. Dad’s known them forever. That picture was taken ages ago, like, five