Random muscle spasms can happen up to twelve hours after death.

I should have remembered that. This is what I do for a living, after all.

But I work on the body, in the basement of the funeral home, in the dark.

So when something suddenly pops me in the side as I take the dead man’s socks off, a loud scream rips through my lips, echoing off the walls.

I whip around to see recently-deceased Paul Saundusky has smacked me in the ribcage as his muscles contracted one final time.

Skin and muscle tissue can continue to live for hours after death. And Mr. Paul has been dead for four of them.

“That wasn’t nice, Mr. Paul,” I say as my heart rate slowly relaxes toward a healthy rate. I shake my head as I return to his other sock, removing it. “Scaring a poor girl like that, all alone at work. It’s late. You’re the one who went and died, calling me into work after hours. You didn’t have to be rude and go and freak me out, too.”

I move on to his pants, slowly stripping the old man down.

“I bet you loved a good scare, didn’t you?” I continue talking to the dead Mr. Paul over the sound of a new song playing from my speakers. “I bet you were always jumping out from around the corner at your poor wife. Or making ghostly sounds at your grandkids. You were a prankster, weren’t you?”

Mr. Paul doesn’t answer. None of them ever do, despite me talking to them, asking about their lives, telling them about mine.

They’re dead.

Every one of them.

But somehow I enjoy their company.

“I know your type,” I say as I finish undressing him. I move on to bathing and disinfecting his body. “My mom’s dad was a little like you before he died. He was always teasing me and my little brother. He teased everyone. Especially girls, which let’s face it, he probably shouldn’t have been doing. He thought he was hilarious. Most of the time he was, but that man.” I shake my head, wiping Mr. Paul’s body down. “He could get a little sexist.”

I bathe the dead man in water and chemicals. Killing off the germs that will only speed up the decomposing process.

On and on I talk, asking him about his wife. His kids. His grandkids.

I say he has five kids. Three girls, two boys. He only has four grandkids so far, because his youngest three kids are being stubborn about growing up and moving on with their lives.

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out soon,” I say as I wheel Mr. Paul over to the refrigerator and transfer him. “The traditional route isn’t for all of us.”

With a well wish goodnight, I slide Mr. Paul into the dark and close the door.

I sigh, looking over at the clock on the wall.

It’s eleven o’clock. I officially got off work at three today, only Emmanuel, my boss and owner of Sykes Funeral Home, called me and told me we had a pick up. He’d gotten the body here with my help, then left to go enjoy the night with his wife and two kids.

Leaving me to start the grunt work.

I guess I am his apprentice, after all. If anyone around here is supposed to be the dead body grunt, it’s me.

I lock up and step out into the fresh, non-formaldehyde-scented world. The late-June Colorado air is still warm. I climb into my car, start the engine, and head in the direction of home.

Greendale, a suburb outside of Denver, has been my home for the past two years. The community college was the only one in the area that had the program I wanted—Mortuary Science. I finished my associates just two months ago. I’ve been in apprenticeship at Sykes Funeral Home for a year, and have two more before I can take my licensing exam and strike out on my own.

The night is fairly quiet already as I drive just a few blocks to my apartment building. It’s a run-down building, the kind where you don’t look your neighbor in the eye for more than two seconds, and definitely the kind where you don’t listen too hard to the conversations you hear through the too-thin walls.

But it’s cheap, and the only two-bedroom place Amelia and I were able to afford.

All that’s about to change, though.

I lock my car as I head up the stairs to the upper floor. I’ve read all those advice articles, the ones on how to protect yourself against predators. I already had my keys out and ready, so I immediately unlock the door and walk in.

The sounds of hissing, cooking food, and the fast-paced music of a dance party on the TV mix and assault my ears the moment I close the door behind me.

“Hey guys,” I say with a surprised smile. “What, your TV not working?”

Amelia grunts an affirmative noise, and doesn’t even look up at me, her gaze fixed on her movie. Her boyfriend, Tanner, has his arm around her. He absent-mindedly twists his finger around a lock of her hair.

I won’t admit it out loud, but I’m happy to see them here. It’s been awfully quiet the last two months. Amelia was my roommate for a little over a year. But two months ago she moved in with Tanner.

Now, it’s usually just me in this rundown apartment.

My stomach immediately growls at the scent of food. I follow my nose toward the kitchen.

“You smell like dead people,” Amelia says without looking away from the screen.

“You know you want to grind up all on this,” I tease her, looking over my shoulder.

A little smile creeps onto her face, but she doesn’t say anything.

I round the dining room, and the kitchen opens up.

Revealing Eli.

Cornelius Rath, or Eli, as I have always called him, takes the garlic from the cutting board and dumps it in the frying pan. He only glances up at me once as he goes back to his work, moving on to a salad in a big bowl.

“How was work?” he asks.

I give a little sigh, feeling myself relax.

Family. Someone I trust. Someone who’s always here for me. Just the sound of his voice makes me feel calm. It’s always so even. But, dark and wise.

Eli is a medium-toned man, with curly black hair, and black eyes. A single piercing holds a gold hoop in his left ear. Black, always, always black clothing hugs his toned body.

A single gold ring sits on the middle finger of his right hand, the crest of a raven set upon its surface.

“Fine,” I say. “Pretty standard night. We’ll finish preparing the body tomorrow, once the family knows how they’d like to proceed from here.”

Eli nods, going back to the chicken, which from the smell of it, is nearly done.

My phone vibrates. Wondering who the hell is texting me this late, I reach into my back pocket and pull it out.

The name across the top—Shylock—sends my heart into my throat.

You haven’t paid the next installment yet. Bring it tomorrow, or that pretty little roommate might look a little different the next time you see her.

Thud, thud, thud. My heart surges my blood through my body with hurricane strength.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I’ll get it to you tomorrow, I text back.

“What’s wrong?”

My head whips up to find Eli studying me with narrowed, concerned eyes.

“Nothing,” I lie, the word coming out a little too quick and panicked-sounding to be believable. “How was your day?” I squeeze into the kitchen behind him, washing my hands in the sink, even though I washed and disinfected them at work.

“Uneventful,” he says as he continues his work, busying around the kitchen.

Be cool, I tell myself. You’ve got the money. Amelia’s not going to get hurt.

I nod, drying my hands off. I wander back over to the table, a dated, round thing we picked off a curb with a piece of cardboard taped to it with FREE written in black marker.

I don’t really understand what Eli does for a living. Something with security companies. Something with computers. Something that’s during the day, a nine-to-five that must pay him fairly well.

“What are we eating tonight?” I ask. I lean back in my chair, kicking my feet up on another. I watch Eli as he works.

“Teriyaki chicken with a balsamic salad and jasmine rice,” he explains. “I was going to make this earlier, but when I got here, Amelia said you’d been called in late.”

“Thanks for waiting,” I say.

He only makes an affirmative grunt.

I live in Greendale now, but I grew up in Cherico, the next town over, twenty minutes outside of Denver, my entire life. The same two-story brick house from the time I was a baby until I graduated high school two years ago.

When I was a freshman, Eli Rath moved into the cute, little white house across the street and down three houses.

To say he stood out was an understatement.

It was a family neighborhood, with kids and boring housewives and overworked dads. Eli was young, single, with a little bit of a dangerous edge to him.

But somehow he became a part of our family. He became friends with my parents. They’d stand out in the driveway talking for a long time, smiling and laughing politely. Soon he was invited over for family barbeques. Next it was Easter dinner, and by my senior year of high school, it was every holiday and most Sundays that he was in our house, like that was where he belonged.

And then I graduated. I moved here to Greendale for school, even though it’s only thirty-five minutes from my parents’ house.

Just a month into school, Eli had texted, telling me his office had moved here to Greendale, and he’d bought a new condo not too far from the school.

My best friend, the man who had always been there for me, for my family, was now only a few blocks from me at all times.

Over these past two years, he has always showed up once or twice a week with bags of food and an even smile on his lips. He’d cook for Amelia and me, and we’d spend the night chatting and laughing over dumb stories.

Eli looks over at me and I give him a little smile.

It’s hard to classify Eli. Protective as a father. Wise as a grandfather. Loyal as a brother.

He’s always been there for me.

I try to do the same. But I see it there. A little flicker of…something in his eyes.

Something a little dark. Something a little sad.

Something a little withdrawn.

But I’ve known Eli long enough now to know he’ll never share whatever put that darkness in his eyes.