And that’s without factoring in the sin eater angle.
The carousel picks up, distracting me from anything as hopeless as hot men—or one particular hot man. Toward midafternoon, a couple of ER nurses bring down a body. Geneva’s on break, so I hand one of them the sign-in clipboard and point the other toward an open cooling bay. Moving by habit, I help her transfer the body to the slab and slide it home.
The nurse with the clipboard hands it back to me. “Another OD,” she murmurs. “Seems like whatever’s out there is stronger than ever.”
“Fucking fentanyl,” I agree with her, and once I double-check to make sure I’ve got all the info I need, they take off.
Leaving me with someone who did not intend to die, and who apparently has opinions about it. A murmur. A sigh. A request so soft I could probably ignore it, except it’s so unusual I decide to act.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I slide the body out of the cabinet, unzip the bag, and set a saltine cracker on her chest. I keep a stash of them for emergencies just like this.
She’s in her teens, and even my thick skin feels a stab of loss. I don’t know why her death bothers me, I don’t know what has changed about the way my gift works, and I don’t know what to do about any of it. I mutter a couple quick prayers anyway. Seems like three days of penance is a small price for me to pay to send this kid on her way with a clean slate.
By the time Geneva gets back, our new patient is tucked into her temporary home. The next couple hours crawl, and it should be easy for me to get Geneva out of here. She’s apparentlydecided I need watching, for reasons I don’t really want to poke at, so it takes me a while to chase her off.
It’s time for me to perform the only service I can for the kid in the cooler. I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t pounding like the subwoofer at a nasty club. The last time I did this, James Smith broke a cardinal rule.
I take on sins, not memories.
Desperate to calm down, I sneak out onto the loading dock for a smoke, my last cigarette for three days. Rules are rules, penance is penance, and I make it a point to honor my side of the agreement.
But if the memory thing happens again... fuck me running. Although really, the likelihood of a seventeen-year-old committing murder is pretty slim, so I should be okay.
I’m squatting in the doorway right next to the big double-wide loading dock, my heels holding the door open a crack so I don’t get locked out. No one else is around, and while it’s not currently raining, November in Seattle means it’s only a matter of time. A gust of wind catches me and I cup my hands around my cigarette. While it might not be warm, exactly, it reminds me of the Brew on the Hill cup Damon brought me.
What’s with that guy anyway?Bringing me coffee. Asking me if everything’s okay. He’s hot and a fucking baseball star.Oh, yes, I did google him, and damn. I don’t know shit about sports, but I know shoulders and I know ass, and D-Clem had ‘em both. Still does, tbh.
And he’s both bisexual and apparently interested.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I ignore it. Don’t have time for stinky snakes. Once I would have probably given in to my ex. Not anymore. Now I’ve got a hot dude bringing me coffee, which raises my self-esteem just enough.
Another drag, and I’m down to the filter. Damn. “Get up, asshole. Let’s get it over with.”
Yes, I’m talking to myself in my stern voice, the kind my mother used to use. Kind of thing she used to say, too. Mom, with her store-bought blond hair and her pack-a-day habit. If I had more time, I’d have to poke around some to find a good memory of her. Nah. Not enough time in the world for that shit. I stub out what’s left of my cigarette and go back inside.
If my heart was pounding before, now it’s just as loud and twice as fast. I do not want a repeat of last time, though my reluctance isn’t as strong as my compulsion. A sin eater eats sins.
Don’t be a fucking baby about it.
I’d turned off all the lights in the morgue, except for the couple that are permanently on. The place is shadowy and so fucking quiet even the corpses must be able to hear my heartbeat. I go to the cadaver storage unit where the young girl is resting. Turn the latch. Open the door.
Slide the corpse out.
I’d left her body bag unzipped a couple inches so I could tell if anyone had been there after me. It’s just like I left it. I go further, revealing her cold, grey face. I only unzip until I reach the cracker, set at the top of her cleavage.
I inhale. Something behind me clicks, and I almost jump out of my skin. Fuck. I turn around hard. Nothing. No one. The room is the same still, shadowy place.
Another inhale.Get it over with, dude. Releasing my breath, I pick up the cracker.
“Our Father, who art in heaven... “ I mumble the prayers as fast as I can, which, to be honest, is pretty damned fast. Then the sequence, begging the Lord to take his daughter home. Then my final, silent request.
Tendrils of energy begin swirling between the corpse and me. Light. Gentle.
Sins.
Eyes closed, I accept them.
