Free Dying for Her: A Companion Novel (Dying for a Living Book 3) by Kory M. Shrum

Apparently all was fine and dandy until Kaitlyn told her death story.”
    “Her death story?”
    “Yeah, apparently, last year she was out for a jog and got hit by a car.”
    “Drunk driver?”
    “No. The driver had just turned around in her seat to swat her kid. It killed Kaitlyn but she woke up the next day, diagnosed with NRD. She was very proud of her condition, according to the cousin. She liked to tell everyone about it. Do you know there’s a website for this shit? People put their death stories out there for the whole world to see.” He looked down at his notes. “Heather Fan is the cousin.”
    “What does that have to do with the guys?”
    “Heather thinks the shooter who put the bullet in her cousin’s head is one of the guys. Brian Taft. He apparently reacted badly to Kaitlyn’s story, said some shit and left early. Then when they were walking to their car hours later, a man in a mask fitting his physical description grabbed Kaitlyn and roughed her up a bit. Kaitlyn fought back, has blood under her nails and all that, for all the good it did her. He still put a bullet in her brain.”
    Brains on the concrete. That’ll do it. The girl wouldn’t be waking up again.
    “Where was the cousin?” I asked.
    “With her until she ran.”
    I placed my hands on my hips. “So what do you want me to do? Find the—”
    “No,” Charlie said. He put away the notebook and turned to me. “You’re still on Sullivan. No new cases until you wrap that up. I called you here to talk to the press.”
    “Me?” I snorted.
    “You’re good with this shit,” he said. “Diplomacy.”
    “If you say so,” I said and looked over toward the news vans clustered at the edge of the crime scene. They strained against the yellow tape like ravenous dogs desperate for the girl’s bones.
    “See,” he said. “You’re doing it already.”
    I put my cold hands in the pockets of my jacket, and leaned a thigh against the black iron arm of a park bench. “What do you want me to say? Or not say.”
    “I just don’t understand why some of them feel the need to be all loud and proud about this. Zombie pride or whatever the hell you want to call it. Do you know how many people would love to hide how different they are? How many kids go around wishing they were a different race or had both arms or whatever? They aren’t helping themselves by being all in-your-face with everyone.”
    “So you want them to hide who they are? I suppose we can go back to the days when the coloreds were lucky if they could pass. Is that what you’re saying?”
    Charlie sighed. “No, Jesus. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m just saying that I want to tell Necronites to stay indoors. Do not announce themselves to everyone they meet or they’ll all end up with their brains blown out by some bigot. But we can’t say that.”
    “It would be a bad idea,” I agreed, wiping at my nose turned cold by the wind.
    “So just paint a rosy fucking picture, would you? Let them know they need to be careful, but also that everything is going to be OK.”
    “Is it going to be OK?” I asked Charlie my friend, not my superior. I knew he understood when he ran his hand over his face.
    “I hope so,” he said. “Eventually.”
    I slapped his back a couple times, mentally forgiving him for being a dick earlier, and jogged toward the white news van perched at the far end of the tape where a black reporter and his camera crew waited. I wondered what he’d say if I’d just repeated Charlie’s spiel to him.
    “Sir.” He called as soon as he saw me. “A few questions if you please, sir?”
    I opened my mouth to give my military rank and stopped. Old habits.
    “Agent Brinkley.” I offered my hand.
    This caught him off guard, as it always does when you act civil to the press, instead of treating them like scavengers tearing at roadside carcasses. He had to switch his microphone to the other hand in order to shake mine. A petite little thing, compared to the