It's A Wonderful Midlife Crisis (Good To The Last Death #1) - Robyn Peterman Page 0,48
nice house. There were lots of others like him… I mean, some would be moving on soon, but more were sure to show up. Maybe he could make some friends and be happy.
And maybe I was still batshit nuts.
I couldn’t play God—the very same entity that I’d denied most of my life. Did I still believe he didn’t exist? I wasn’t as sure.
“Umm… John? Are you the banker who passed a week ago?”
His head jerked up, and he grabbed it before it went flying off his body. His manners were terrific. The sound he made… not so much. A wail from the bottom of his soul came out of his mouth. Chills covered my body and I felt sick.
My guess was that I’d gotten his identity correct. Maybe he was mentally ill. It didn’t matter. John had some unfinished business. There was a chance I could help him and take away some of his pain. I recalled his wife. She was attractive and well put together—much younger, maybe in her thirties. After the service, I usually went up and wished the widow well. I was a widow myself. I knew what it meant to have people pay their respects. I remembered every single face from Steve’s funeral.
However, I didn’t speak to the widow at John’s funeral. It just didn’t feel right. There were so few people in the church, I just sat in the back and slipped out unseen. John’s funeral wasn’t a celebration of his life like Sam’s had been. It was a somber and odd experience.
Maybe he was upset about that.
Could I perform another funeral for him? Hells bells, I needed to talk to Gram. If I had to get ordained for this job, that was going to be an issue. I still had no clue what I believed in and what I didn’t. If John had been religious, it would be wrong to reenact a funeral for him.
“John, I need to ask you a few harder questions,” I told him.
He wouldn’t look at me.
“Is that okay?”
John nodded but kept his eyes down. God, his pain was so real.
“Did you commit suicide, John?”
“Naawwwooo,” he shouted and pounded the kitchen table with his fist. He hit the wood with such force, I was surprised his hand didn’t fly off. His eyes went wide and he bared his teeth like an animal. “Naawwwooo, naawwwooo, NAAOOO.”
“Okay,” I said, touching his arm warily. “It’s okay. I believe you.”
John calmed and tried to tell me more. “Daaaaaggguh.”
“Dagger?” I asked, confused.
“Naawwwooo.”
“Daughter?” I tried again.
He shook his head no. I needed Donna.
“Donna, come in here please. I need some help,” I called out.
She trotted in and sat at my feet. She gazed up at John and wagged her tail. John’s excitement rose. It was horrifying and kind of scary, but possibly a good sign. I hoped.
“Daaaaaggguh,” he grunted, pointing at Donna and trembling like a leaf. “Daaaaaggguh.”
“Something about your dog?” I questioned, thanking my lucky stars for Donna.
“Yausssss. Daaaaaggguh,” he repeated, appearing both sad and angry.
“Got it,” I said, wondering what to do with this information. Something had clearly happened to his dog and he was upset about it. God, I hoped he hadn’t killed his dog. He didn’t seem like the type, but I reminded myself I didn’t know these people.
Glancing around the room, I looked to see if a ghost dog had shown up. Nope. No dog. I was going to lean to the side that he didn’t off his dog. I didn’t want to help anyone who would kill their pet, and I wanted to help John.
“Is your dog alive?” I asked carefully, getting ready to haul ass out of my kitchen with Donna if his answer made me doubt him.
He nodded and began to cry. Well, cry like a dead person. No tears came, but the body language was clear. The good thing was that the dog was alive.
“Where is the dog?” I asked and then winced. That was not a one-word-answer question. “Is it at your home?”
He shook his head no and then paused. Looking up at me, his lips began to move quickly. I couldn’t understand a thing.
“Slow down, John,” I insisted. “Tell me slowly. Maybe try to act out what you can’t say. Cool?”
He nodded jerkily and stilled.
“Daaaaaggguh,” he said.
“Yep. I got that part.”
John then pounded his fist on the table.
“Your dog got hit? Run over?”
Donna growled. I’d gotten it wrong.
“Try again,” I told him.
“Daaaaaggguh.” Again, he pounded his hand on the table.