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That might be the greatest gift anybody has ever given me.

Her fingers settle over my heart like she is checking whether the damn thing finally works.

It does.

Poor bastard never stood a chance.

Epilogue

Sweet

Three months later, I am elbow-deep in corpse makeup when Sheriff steals my lunch.

Again.

“Son of a bitch.”

The rooster looks up from beneath my worktable with half a turkey sandwich hanging from his beak.

“You have committed theft.”

Sheriff chews.

Badly.

“You are a repeat offender.”

He swallows and takes another bite.

I point my restorative brush at him. “I know people who dig graves recreationally.”

Sheriff does not appear intimidated.

Across the preparation room, Mercy looks over the top of her glasses.

“If you left your sandwich where a chicken could reach it, that sounds like poor planning.”

“He climbed onto my stool.”

“He is motivated.”

“He is poultry.”

“Those things can coexist.”

I stare at her.

Three months at the Grave Prowlers School of the Dead, and I am beginning to understand why no student has successfully won an argument with Mercy Duvall.

Junie passes behind me carrying a tray of supplies.

“You going to eat the other half?”

“Yes.”

“Better guard it.”

“Thank you for your support.”