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“That seems to be your specialty,” he said cheerfully.

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious, actually.” He gestured vaguely toward Bloom & Gloom. “Morton try to sacrifice you to the afterlife gods, or did you just roll around on a preparation table for fun?”

“I slipped on water on the floor,” I muttered. “Apparently ‘Preserving Fluid’ is not a great room spray. Who knew?”

“Morton,” Ryder said. “Morton knew.”

I ran a hand over my face. “I’m going back to the inn. I need a shower. Or twelve.”

“Good plan,” he said. “I’d offer you a ride, but I like my car too much.” He cocked his head and smirked. “I bet Sterling would still give you a ride.”

I crossed my arms. “I was actually hoping it would repel him.”

Ryder barked a short laugh. “Sterling’s always been a weirdo—he probably likes the scent of death.”

I blinked. “What?”

He shrugged, easy and unbothered. “Kidding. Mostly.”

I bit down on my lip, thinking what he’d just said wasn’t as cute as he was probably going for.

“Stay safe, Roadkill,” he said. “And hey, at least you won’t have to worry about serial killers on your walk back. You smell too bad.”

I stared at him. “That might be the strangest reassurance I’ve ever gotten.”

He slid his sunglasses down, his eyes glinting with amusement. “It’s a good thing in a town like this…and you’re welcome,” he said. “That kind of expert threat assessment usually costs extra.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Nothing boosts a girl’s confidence quite like law enforcement confirming she smells too bad to kill.”

Ryder grinned. “Happy to serve.”

I turned and headed back toward the inn at a brisk pace, deciding everyone in this town was either really unwell or had a very strange sense of humor.

But the way they all treated it—easy, almost amused—kept pressing at me.

Because there was nothing funny about real evil. And I knew the difference.

CHAPTER 11

SIENNA

The walk back felt…off.

The mountains loomed a little closer. The wind cut colder through my jacket, threading icy fingers down the back of my neck. A piece of trash blew down the street, snagging on my ankle like it was purposely trying to trip me.

“Get a grip, Sienna,” I told myself. “It’s just embalming fumes invading your brain. You are not the main character in a ghost story.”

And the real me wasn’t something I planned on introducing.

By the time I got back to the Blackwood Inn, the sun and my sweat had only enhanced the smell clinging to me from “you’ve recently been in the same building as death” to “you personally crawled out of a crypt.”

I trudged down the floral-carpeted hallway, fishing my key out of my pocket, and nearly walked into the small box sitting in front of my door.

My steps halted as I stared at the plain cardboard package with my name scrawled across the top in loopy handwriting.

A weird little stutter kicked through my chest, which was embarrassing for someone who’d supposedly learned how to handle new things after David—according to my therapist, anyway.