Page 38 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Right, so actually, I have two ulterior motives.

“I don’t get it,” Chris says as he makes a left turn. “You knew this guy?”

“Yeah,” I say with a deep, sad sigh. “Through my new job. I mean, I haven’t known him for long, obviously. But he made a real... impact.”

It wasn’t easy to convince Chris to spend the afternoon at a funeral with me, but when I told him that tragedy had struck and I needed his support, he finally gave in. And it’s working out exactly the way I’d hoped. First of all, the dogs fit perfectly in the back of Chris’s coupe. But even more than that, what brings people together? Grief!

It’ll play out like this: When Chris sees me in mourning, he’ll think about death, and how short our time on earth is, and how he wants to spend that time with me, and then he’ll realize he’s still in love with me. He’ll beg me to come back, and after some stoic resistance, I’ll throw myself into his arms and we’ll never be apart again.

Yeah, I have a grand, romantic plan. I alsovery muchwant to get in his pants. That breakup sex flipped a switch inside me, and I can’t stop thinking about it, or Chris. Or sex in general. Heck, the Hancock Building set me off the other day. There’s also something about the fact that I don’t have any realistic options at the moment that makes me want it even more.

So right now, just being in the car with Chris is making my whole body buzz. Like one of those old electric mosquito catchers that accidentally also fries moths.

It can’t be just me feeling like this. Right?

“So you have a new job?” he asks, and I search for any inkling of flirtation in his tone. Nothing. That’s fine, we have all afternoon.

I gaze out of my window wistfully. “Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I’m a... traffic management consultant for a government agency.” Nailed it. “They were desperate to have me.”

He sort of grunts.

I wipe away a fake tear.

“Don’t tell me you’re allergic to dogs now,” he says.

“I’m not,” I say.

“Then what’s wrong with your eyes?”

I’m clearly moving too fast in the grief-brings-people-together department.

I play it cool for the rest of the ride to the funeral home, and once we get there, everything starts off just the way I imagined: We walk up together, me leaning on Chris because the stairs are steep and my heels are high, all three dogs following behind us like a fluffy, white Cerberus. We look amazing.

I open the door and all five of us step/trot inside, but before we can go any farther, a gangly, anxious, andverypale man with a mustache and a practiced look of regret cuts us off.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t bring those dogs in here,” he says.

“Why not?” I ask indignantly.

“It’s a funeral home, ma’am.”

“And these dogs are the deceased’s next of kin,” I say in a rich-person voice. “They have suffered a great loss.”

“Ma’am, please.” The man leans in. “We can’t run the risk that they might cause a commotion or chew on... something.”

The bull penis flashes through my head, but I can’t retreat now. Not when my salvation is in the next room with that corpse.

Instead, I gasp. “Are you suggesting,” I press my hand to my chest for full effect, “that these impeccably trainedangels—”

As I look to Chris for backup, his face goes puke green and he freezes in terror, leaving me hanging.

And here’s where the plan starts to unravel.

Mostly because I underestimate, again, how much Chris hates conflict.