Death’s Intern
D. C. Gomez
© 2017 D. C. Gomez
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1977585345
ISBN-13: 9781977585349
For Antonio and Kat:
thank you for being my own dream team.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
About the Author
Chapter 1
Friday night, and I was living the dream. Yeah, right! I had cleaned the same three tables at least fifty times in the last three hours at Abuelita’s. Abuelita’s was a small—OK, more like a hole-in-the-wall—Tex-Mex restaurant in Texarkana, Texas. Of all the places I had ever dreamed of living and had moved to, staying there was beyond me. To make things even more confusing, Texarkana had a twin city, Texarkana, Arkansas. I guess the founders were not very creative with the name selection, but who was I to judge? Compared to most major cities, Texarkana was a tiny dot on the map. For the locals, it was the largest city within sixty miles in any direction. It was by accident that I’d found it. Located on the northeast tip of Texas, it was in the middle of everything and near nowhere.
I was sure my godmother would love this. I’d promised myself I would never follow in her footsteps of wandering like a nomad. Now here I was, in my fifth town in less than six months. The good news was that I had managed to stay here the longest, a whole three months. I was probably brain-dead—I had moved to Texas in the middle of summer. With the temperatures hitting over ninety degrees and with over 90 percent humidity, I was surprised I hadn’t melted. My curiosity in learning everything about the King of Ragtime was now extinguished. I was sure I understood why Mr. Joplin had left. Why hadn’t I just read Wikipedia? According to the calendar, fall was six days away, and the weather was still suffocating.
“Isis, are you listening to me?” Oops. I had blanked out Abuelita’s voice from the kitchen.
Abuelita had named the place after herself. More accurately, she had used her nickname. In her words, the only thing she was after her husband and daughter died was a grandmother. She embraced it and became a grandmother to the world. Her place was open to everyone, and a wide diversity of people patronized the place. Abuelita was probably in her late sixties and tall, around five eleven, with a solid body. I was a couple of inches shorter, and it was odd to have a woman taller than me in this area. She was still strong and beautiful, with her silver hair. That shiny silver hair was the only indication of her age. She had been blessed with genes that aged in slow motion, like most Latinas.
“I’m sorry, Abuelita. I was distracted.” I sucked at lying, so no need to even try.
“With what? We haven’t had a soul in hours. Not even our regulars came in. Start getting the place ready for tomorrow. No need to waste time. Might as well close early today.”
I was speechless. In the three months I had been working there, Abuelita had never closed early. Granted, it was already 9:00 p.m., and we normally closed at 11:00 p.m. So it wasn’t that early, but without customers, the cleanup was done. Closing usually took us at least an hour. I was not planning to argue with Abuelita. She was a very eccentric woman. I was sure she and my godmother would have bonded instantly. I really needed to call her. She was the only family I had.
The dining area of Abuelita’s had three tables, with four chairs each. Two of the tables were by the large window at the front of the restaurant. The register area doubled as a bar, with six stools on the dining side. I took a chair by the window with a stack of forks, knives, and spoons. I was not in any hurry. There was plenty of silverware wrapped in napkins already since nobody had come in. Abuelita’s faced Highway 82, past Walmart and the other Mexican restaurant heading toward Nash. Normally I saw the high school kids driving around. Tonight even the highway was a ghost area. A bit creepy for my taste.
It was probably a blessing it was empty, because Angelito was missing. Angelito was Abuelita’s grandson and the other staff member on weekends with me. The only thing angelic about that boy was his name. He went through more girls than most people went through underwear. In his mind he was a ladies’ man, and unfortunately for the ladies, he was hot. At twenty-one he was over six feet tall and weighed maybe around 180 pounds, with a great complexion and incredible hazel eyes. The one great thing about Angelito was that he lived with his grandmother. He was a spoiled boy, but he adored his grandma. If Abuelita told him she needed him, he would change his plans for her.
I could have passed for his older sister. Angelito and Abuelita were of Mexican descent but looked European. I could have passed for anything, from Italian to even Middle Eastern. My parents died when I was little, and my Gypsy godmother wasn’t sure of their nationalities. I could be anything, with my long, thick black hair and mocha complexion that could place me anywhere in the world. For most of my life, I’d been described as exotic. I guess it was a better way of saying outcast. It didn’t help that my parents had named me Isis—Isis Black. In the age of terrorists, I had the worst name on the planet.
At times I wondered what kind of parents I had who would trust their only daughter to a woman like my godmother. Don’t get me wrong; my godmother was a beautiful woman with an incredibly caring soul. She was also a little rebel with a complete disregard for authority. Maybe my subconscious
