Page 4 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

Most days, I manage reasonably well.

Today . . .

Not so much.

Then, without warning, the constant hum simply . . .

Stops.

Not fades.

Stops.

A strange emptiness settles at the edge of my awareness, so abrupt it makes my breath catch.

I slowly lift my head.

Beyond the cemetery fence, standing beneath the broad branches of an old oak, is a man dressed entirely in black.

Not funeral black.

Elegant black.

A perfectly tailored suit beneath a long raincoat, every button neatly fastened despite the summer storm. A black shirt disappears beneath a slim black tie, while polished shoes rest motionless on the rain-soaked grass. Water beads across the shoulders of his coat before sliding harmlessly away, yet somehow he never appears wet.

He isn't holding an umbrella.

He doesn't seem to notice the rain at all.

He simply stands there with his hands folded loosely before him, watching the service.

The funeral ends with the feeblest rendition of "Blessed Assurance" I have ever heard. One by one, the mourners drift back toward their cars until only the two groundskeepers and I remain. They look as though they'd rather be anywhere else, but I've never liked leaving before the casket is lowered. It feels wrong somehow, as though the flowers deserve to stay with someone until the very last goodbye.

While the others gather their things, I snip a single blue hyacinth from the standing spray and lay it gently atop the casket.

"For your journey," I murmur.

One of the groundskeepers offers me a grateful nod before setting the winch into motion. The soft metallic whine echoes through the rain-soaked cemetery, strangely comforting in its honesty. Life spends so much time pretending endings don't exist. Cemeteries, at least, never lie.

I turn toward the path, and my steps falter.

He's still here.

He stands beneath the sprawling branches of a copper beech, perhaps twenty feet away, watching the cemetery with the same quiet focus he'd worn throughout the service. Up close, he looks less like an apparition and more like a man who belongs at every funeral without anyone ever questioning why. His black suit is impeccably tailored, his black shirt and tie perfectly neat beneath a long raincoat that should have been soaked through by now. Instead, the rain beads across the fabric before slipping harmlessly away, leaving him looking as composed as if he'd stepped out of a town car instead of standing in the middle of a storm.

His gaze shifts to meet mine.

I should look away.

Instead, I stare.

The unsettling part isn't that he's watching me. It's that I still can't hear him.

Every living person carries a constant stream of thoughts. Some are loud, some are quiet, but they're always there. This man is different. I reach for his mind almost instinctively, expecting at least the faintest whisper of curiosity or boredom.

Nothing answers me.

Not silence.