Free Death Takes a Holiday by Jennifer Harlow Page B

says, looking down at his beer. “You’re looking well.”
    “Thank you. You too.” He does. He’s either had plastic surgery or he’s been eating his Wheaties. His skin has a glow and the small age lines around his eyes are gone—all in less than a year. Lucky him.
    “I hope you don’t, you know, mind I’m here.”
    “Of course not. It’s always nice to see you.”
    Nana glances at Steven, then me. “I was just telling Steven about your new job.”
    “I can see you’re doing well,” Steven says, still not looking at me.
    “I think I’m going to find Hilda,” Nana says. “You two talk.”
    I shoot her a look. Nana squeezes my arm before walking away. I’ll bet after a beer or two she and Mrs. R will be dancing on tables or passed out on the couch, or in the corner scrapbooking. She is the source of my lack of party genes. Before I had to start working nights, I barely left my house after dark. Heck, I would barely ever leave my apartment if not for April. Now I usually wake up at two and spend my evenings at bars or malls or just sitting outside having a glass of wine with Oliver. Weird how I just realized that.
    “You really do look good, you know,” Steven says.
    “My building has a gym,” I say, not really lying. “I get bored.”
    He sips his beer. “So, Kansas, huh?”
    “Kansas.”
    “I was surprised to hear you left. I always pegged you for a lifer.”
    “Needed a change. Kansas is as good a place as any.”
    “How’s your head doing?”
    “Hard as always. I’m completely healed. I don’t even get headaches anymore.”
    “They ever figure out what happened?” he asks.
    And here’s reason number fifteen I broke up with Steven: I knew if he ever found out what I can do, he’d probably arrest me for possession of a deadly weapon. He’s not the most open minded of people. We were together for two years and not once did I ever consider telling him about my gift. I took great pains to make sure he never found out. We never spent the whole night together in case I had a nightmare and the bed levitated. If I felt myself get too emotional, I’d walk away. If I ever slipped up and something was banging or floating, I’d distract him, usually with my feminine wiles, which would just lead to more problems. I’m amazed I was able to carry on for as long as I did.
    “Blood clot,” I lie. “Gave me some medicine and no problems since.”
    “Good. I was really worried,” he says.
    “Thank you. The flowers meant a lot. Really.” His cheeks flare up a little from embarrassment. Guess my booty shaking did a number on him. We don’t say anything for an uncomfortable moment. Really, what do you say to the man whose heart you broke, or at least trampled on a little? “I’m sorry. About you and Allison. I thought you two were good together.”
    “Yeah,” he says, still looking at his beer. “It hadn’t been working for a while. Nobody’s fault really. What about you? Seeing anyone?”
    “Not really,” I say with a small smile. “I mean, it’s sort of very complicated.”
    “How?”
    I shake my head. “There’s this guy I like. A lot. But he’s … it can’t happen.”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, he’s sort of my boss, for one. He’s a widower. And … it’s just not going to work out.”
    “That’s tough. But you’re okay out there besides that? Happy?”
    “There are moments, I guess. For the most part I like it. I have friends. The job is very fulfilling when I’m not fending off the crazies.”
    “One of those crazies do that to your neck and arms?” he asks, pointing to the scar on my neck (Oliver) and arms (zombies).
    “Kids. There’s always a biter in the lot.” Time for a new topic. “What about you? How’s the job? Still on patrol with Artie?”
    Artie being Artie Rupp, Steven’s partner of four years and a huge piece of work. Forty-five, divorced thrice, and still a patrolman after twenty years. From what I’m told, he failed the Sergeant’s exam five