Fifth Grave Past the Light by Darynda Jones

toe. She wore only a short gown. Her bare feet were covered in scratches, as though she’d fought back, kicking at someone, or she’d tried to run before dying. I wondered if the girls were related. Then I noticed ligature marks on her neck. I hadn’t seen them on the pixie, but her hair and position had made it impossible to be sure. I could get a probable cause of death of this one at least. She had been strangled, and judging by the broken blood vessels in her eyes and the swollen face, that was very likely the way she’d died.
    Artemis woke up and began sniffing under the bed. I was worried she would scare the pixie. Instead, the girl seemed fascinated by her. Her features softened and she almost smiled. Almost.
    “You keep an eye on this one, okay?” I said to Artemis, and I went around the bed to try to talk to the other one. Like the pixie when she first showed up, this one was terrified, staring off into space with wide eyes. She kept her hands up as though trying to defend herself. When I touched her arm, she curled into herself even more. She ducked her head behind her arms and whimpered.
    Sometimes my job sucked. What had these girls gone through? What made them scared of their own shadow? Having recently gone through a bout of PTSD, I could understand the “scared of your own shadow” thing, but normally death brought with it a certain amount of healing. People didn’t suffer their own ends for eternity. Yet these girls seemed stuck in the moments they’d died.
    I needed a plan. First coffee. Then Uncle Bob. Something must have happened. Surely these girls had been reported missing.
    Cookie was going to be in class all day. For a second, I actually thought about postponing it, then realized the world would be a safer place with her in that class. I couldn’t let the world down.
    I visited the ladies’ room and sat atop my porcelain throne. That’s when I heard more whimpering coming from the living room. No way. Another one? Feeling better – there was nothing like ninety pounds resting on your bladder at dawn – I peeked into my living room. I didn’t see anyone besides Mr. Wong at first. The sounds were coming from somewhere near him, but he wouldn’t be making them. He was a permanent fixture, had been here since I rented the apartment, and was being his usual self, hovering in a corner, silent as the moon. Since he’d never said anything, had never even moved from that spot, I doubted he would be whimpering now.
    I tiptoed to Sophie, my secondhand sofa, and saw a third woman. And while this one was blond as well, she was not a natural blonde. She looked Hispanic. Around twenty-five. But she had the same matted hair, only the blond in hers hung in uneven patches as though it had been bleached in a hurry or under duress. And she had the same terrified expression. Exhibited the same mindless behavior.
    What the hell was going on? I would never figure it out without a caffeine fix. I turned to have my morning meeting of the minds with Mr. Coffee. We talked every morning about lots of different things. He mostly gurgled and let off steam while brewing the elixir of life. I mostly yawned and complained about mornings, the weather, men. Whatever struck my fancy.
    Once he’d finished his rant, something about how I only loved him for his carafe, I realized I had run out of clean cups. And dish soap. After a quick trip to the bathroom and back, I washed a few cups with shampoo, then reached in the top cabinet for my hidden treasure of gold. Nondairy creamer. Some people would call me a sellout, a charlatan for using the fake stuff, but the fake stuff made me happy. Much like puppies did. And George. Reyes’s shower.
    But when I opened the cabinet, I found another woman holed up inside it. I jumped back, let out something that resembled a squeak on a rusty wheel, and clutched my heart. One would think that, since I was the grim reaper, I’d be used to the dead showing up unexpectedly. Nope. It still