It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis (Good To The Last Death #1) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,105

want to go. It felt morbid. I’d made excuses to get out of driving him to the cemetery. Shit. Who the hell was I not to let him do what he wanted? If he needed to see where he was buried, I should have taken him. We’d do it today.

“Steve,” I yelled, going from room to room.

Something was wrong. I felt it in my bones and my heart. Could someone die twice? My breath started to come in gasps and the chances of me passing out grew high. Steve would never let me live it down if he found me out cold in the hallway.

“Answer me now,” I shouted.

“Daaaauusayy,” I heard a voice call out weakly from our bedroom.

“No, no, no,” I hissed as tears filled my eyes and I slowly pushed the door open.

Steve was on the bed. His eyes were huge and he looked terrified. His state of decay had increased—most of his body was transparent. If I didn’t know in my heart it was him, I might not have recognized my best friend.

The room began to spin and I got down on my hands and knees so I wouldn’t fall. Crawling over to the bed, I tried to steady my breathing so everything would slow down and I could help him. My heart pounded in my chest so fast and hard, I wondered briefly if I was having a heart attack.

“Steve,” I choked out as I pulled myself up onto the bed and lay next to him. “What happened? What’s going on?”

“Daaaauusayy. Sooorahy,” he told me, trying to move closer.

He couldn’t. It was like he was lying in state… in a coffin. His dead body was rigid and his pale coloring was now dark gray. Holding back a scream was difficult, but I reminded myself it was Steve—my best friend in the world. It would never matter to me what he looked like on the outside. His insides were pristine and beautiful.

“It’s okay. Nothing to be sorry about,” I said, gently stroking his forehead. “Something is going on and I’ll fix it. Don’t you worry, baby. I’ve got you.”

Steve closed his eyes as much as he could and I think he tried to smile. I had no idea if I was just a conduit for the dead to leave this plane or if I had more power than I was aware of. Could I help him? Shit. I didn’t even know what was happening.

Glancing around the room, I looked for the golden light. It was absent… but a blackish-gray mist was beginning to seep in through the crown molding and from invisible cracks in the floorboards. The smell was rancid, and I swallowed back my bile. My heart skipped beats and my head throbbed. Steve moaned quietly next to me, and I realized that freaking out would accomplish nothing.

“It will be fine. Everything will be fine,” I said, more to myself than him, rolling off the bed and grabbing a basket of clean laundry. I quickly covered Steve with Gram’s afghan to protect him, and then tried to stop the progression of gray-black mist with towels, jeans, t-shirts and sweats. I ran around the room stuffing clean clothes into every crack and crevice that was leaking the deadly fog.

It wasn’t working.

“What do I do?” I muttered frantically. “What the hell do I do?”

Moving back to the bed, I covered Steve with our quilt and wrapped my arms around him. It was a long shot, but maybe he could help me. It would be difficult to understand him, but there was no way in hell I would leave him alone to get the Ouija board.

“Steve,” I said, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice. “Can you tell me what’s happening? Just talk slow. I’ll be able to understand, baby.”

“Daaaurk.”

“No. You can’t go to the dark,” I growled, glaring at the murky haze and willing it to disappear. “You’re going into the light.”

“Naawwwooo,” he grunted. “Suuuuausiidea.”

“Suicide?” I asked as my gut clenched and my vision blurred. “You didn’t commit suicide.”

“Naawwwooo.”

“Steve, I need you to be straight with me,” I said, and then laughed. It was the most inappropriate laughter that had ever left my lips in my entire life. I’d just told my gay husband I needed him to be straight.

“Fauuhnny,” Steve said in the midst of both of our lives being blown up.

“I’m a regular stand-up comedian,” I said, trying not to cry. “I need you to tell me the truth. Did you commit suicide? I