To Catch Her Death (The Grim Reality Series Book 1) by Boone Brux

“That’s probably because you’re a reaper?”
    “Seriously?”
    She looked up. “Most reapers have a tough time with plants and small animals like fish.”
    “Wow, I always thought I’d inherited my mother’s anti-green thumb.” We never had plants growing up. When I got my own place I’d been determined to get a little green in my life. Alaskan winter days were dark and plants seemed like the perfect touch of life during the cold months. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the darn things to grow. Now I knew why. “Remind me not to clean my boys’ fish tank.”
    “I’ll make a note here to start you on physical therapy. I can help you strengthen your ankle.”
    “A physical therapist too?” I liked Dr. Jensen. She didn’t just listen to what I said, but seemed genuinely interested in helping me.
    “I started my medical career as an assistant to a physical therapist.” She smiled. “It made me want to become a doctor.”
    “Where would we do my physical rehab, here?” Lord knew I could use it on more than just my ankle.
    “Yes. One of the benefits of working at GRS is deep pockets. I’ve got better equipment and supplies than most hospitals in Alaska.” Her gaze tracked down the form. “Do you smoke?”
    “No.”
    She made a checkmark. “Do you drink alcohol?’
    “Yes.”
    “How often?”
    I hated these questions. They always made me feel like I’d done something wrong. “Two to three times a week?”
    She scribbled another note. “Hard liquor? Wine? Beer?
    “Yes.” Realizing that sounded rather alcoholicish, I added, “But I prefer beer.”
    Another smile spread across her face. “A girl after my own heart.”
    The woman had sophistication coming out her ears and I had a difficult time picturing her downing a cold one. “I pegged you as a wine drinker?”
    “One of my claims to fame in college was being the two time beer drinking champion at my sorority’s Oktoberfest.”
    “Impressive.” The connection between Dr. Jensen and I tightened a little more. “But only two years?”
    She flipped around a picture frame that had been facing away from me and pointed to a Muffy-looking blond. “Belinda Mayer stole the title my senior year.”
    The good doc stood out amongst the sea of Barbies. “She looks really—perky.”
    “Don’t let her looks fool you. The girl could drink like a fish.” She set the picture back in its place and returned her attention to the questions. “Do you use any recreational drugs?”
    “Define recreational?” When she looked up with her eyebrow lifted, I rethought my answer. “No, besides the occasional swig of cold medicine to help me sleep, I’m clean.”
    “Do you have trouble sleeping?”
    “For the first six months after Jeff died I did, but I’m getting better.” I still woke some nights thinking he was beside me, but it didn’t cause me the jolt of depression anymore. Usually I just rolled over and fell back asleep. “No need for a prescription if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “It was.” She ticked off another box. “Are you taking anything for depression?”
    “Despite the opinion of others, no.”
    “Tomorrow you’ll be given your psych exam, which includes a little chat with GRS’s psychiatrist. He’s good but a little pill happy if you know what I mean.” She set down her pen and looked at me. “My suggestion is to take the prescription if he writes one, toss it when you get home. It’s better to look cooperative than having to defend you mental competence.”
    “GRS has a psychiatrist on staff?” I shifted in my chair. “That makes me a little nervous.”
    “Let’s face it; this isn’t your ordinary nine-to-five. He’s a great therapist and you might find yourself needing to talk about something that happens on the job.”
    I widened my eyes. “Can’t I just come and see you?”
    She gave a little snort. “Psychiatry is not on my list of specialties, but I will admit I give my best advice after a