Dying Echo A Grim Reaper Mystery - By Judy Clemens Page 0,13

in those books kids read these days. I don’t have to be invited. You know, I’m wondering where that myth came from, anyway.” Death pulled the ebook reader out and began tapping the screen.

Casey put her hand over it. “You don’t have to be polite, either? You can just walk into non-dying people’s houses?”

“For heaven’s sake.” Death brushed her hand away, and she drew back, shivering. “Like you’re Miss Manners.”

Casey blew on her fingers, then tried the door. It was locked, just like the front. The window in the door was clear of obstruction, the curtains drawn to the side, so Casey cupped her hands around her eyes to peer in. “The kitchen looks exactly the same as when I was a kid. Except dark.”

“How about knocking?”

Casey tried. Again, no response.

“I’d say she doesn’t want company,” Death said. “What are you doing?”

Casey was crouched beside a flowerpot that held a dead plant. “There’s a key under here. Or at least there used to be. Here we go.” She stood up, dusting her hand off on her jeans and holding up a silver key. She took another deep breath and slid the key into the lock. The door opened, like it always had when she would come home from school.

“Mom?” Casey poked her head through the doorway, then walked all the way in. The smell of her childhood tickled her nose. Lysol and gardenia mixed together, but only faintly, as if they were merely distant memories, rather than anything present day. “Mom?”

Death swirled around her to materialize in the doorway to the dining room. “This way, Casey.”

Casey followed, shivering in the air Death left behind.

Her mother sat by the front window, but she wasn’t looking out of it. Instead, she sat stiff-backed, staring at the far wall, her hands clasped together on her lap. She wore a light blue sweatshirt with cardinals on it, and a loose, elastic-waisted pair of jeans. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been washed—or even combed—for a very long time. Perhaps since Ricky had been arrested the week before. She had become, in the two years since Casey had left, an old woman.

Casey followed her mother’s gaze to the wall and went weak-kneed. The little shelf that had always held Casey and Ricky’s school pictures was still full. Only now the shelf held photos of Omar. His first baby picture, his three-month, the six-month taken only days before his death. In each photo—well, except for the newborn one—he was grinning that gummy smile, his dark eyes bright, his shock of black hair sticking up, even after they’d worked so hard to plaster it down.

“You okay?” Death stood between Casey and the photos, almost solid enough to block the view.

“I’m fine.” Casey wrenched her eyes from the pictures and knelt by her mother’s chair. “Mom?”

“I don’t know,” Death said. “She’s not looking so good. Kinda like you right now, all white and everything, except older. She has definitely lost weight since we last saw her. I mean, look at those skinny arms.” Death pulled out an iPad and held it up. “See? Photo from before the accident. It’s like she’s not even the same person.”

Casey waved the iPad out of her face and touched her mother’s arm. “Mom. It’s me, Casey.”

“Of course it’s you.” Her mom’s head snapped toward her, and her eyes flashed. “I think I still know my own daughter. Even if you have forgotten us.”

Casey sat frozen, shocked into silence.

Death, however, had no such issues. “Woo-wee! You are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you? Good thing she doesn’t know kung fu.”

“You take off, leave me, leave Ricky. Let that woman come into our lives. His life. And now look what’s happened. Your little brother is in jail. Locked away with criminals. How do you think he’ll be treated in there?”

Not something Casey wanted to consider. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m back now. I’m here to help.”

“Like that will work, with the cops all hunting you.”

“Not anymore.”

Her mother’s eyes filled. “They caught you, too?”

“No, Mom. I’m free. It’s taken care of. I’m here now. The cops aren’t after me.”

Her mother grabbed Casey’s arm with spidery fingers. “You’re home? For good?”

Casey glanced at Death, who waited with undisguised interest for her answer. “I don’t know, Mom. I came home to help Ricky.”

Her mother’s clutch loosened, but she didn’t let go. “Well, that’s something. Isn’t it?”

“It’s something.”

Her mom picked at Casey’s sleeve. “Have you been to see your brother?”

“Going this afternoon. Do you want to come along? I can