Page 38 of My Killer Blind Date

‘Of course you do.’ George gives me an insufferably wise look. ‘At some point, babe, it’s a leap of faith.’

I deflate on the bench with a long groan.

That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

*

Of all the things I imagined doing for work when I was a kid thinking of my future professional options, styling a dead woman’s hair was not one of them.

‘The stylist came down with Covid,’ Bill explained when I went to get my body pickup assignments. ‘So Devin will cover today’s morgue pickups, and I’ll need your help with hair and makeup.’

‘I’m not super great with that stuff …’ I said, gesturing vaguely to my own bare face and clipped-back hair, still wet from my post-hot-yoga shower.

‘But you’re a woman,’ said Bill.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

‘OK,’ I said.

So here I am, in the basement of the funeral home, rolling Vicki Piscetti’s gray hair into hot curlers, per the family’s instructions, before her four p.m. viewing upstairs. Is it weird? Yes. It’s weird as fuck. I actively pretend in my mind that this is a spa, and Vicki is just snoozing, so that I don’t have to absorb what I’m actually doing.

Every now and then, my phone vibrates, and I check it as discreetly as possible. George is texting me GIF after GIF of people falling in embarrassing ways. I find a few gems to send back, including one of a woman in an eighties aerobics leotard lurching around as if drunk.

Jokes aside, I have to admit the early hot yoga did invigorate me. I feel more awake and alert than I’ve felt in a long time, which, unfair. I hate it when George is right about annoying things like rising early and exercise. If I’m not careful, next thing I know she’ll have me doing intermittent fasting, sauna and my first marathon. Ew.

‘How are you liking the job so far?’ Bill startles me into nearly dropping my phone, which I quickly tuck back into my pocket. He’s working behind me, performing a shave on another gentleman whose family is scheduled to say their private goodbyes later on today before he’s cremated.

‘Oh! Uh … it’s definitely interesting,’ I say as I struggle a chunk of gray hair around a curler. I’ve literally never curled my hair, or anyone else’s. Am I doing it in the right direction?

There’s a moment of silence. I hear the drip of water as Bill dips the razor into a bowl of water.

‘It is definitely that. Interesting,’ says Bill amiably.

It’s not much of an entrance, but I’ll take it anyway – after all, I’m here to investigate.

‘Speaking of interesting,’ I say as I pluck the next curler from the heated base, ‘I keep hearing about one of your former employees. Zoe? Is it true that she just disappeared one day without a trace? I hope you don’t mind me asking.’

He sighs and doesn’t speak for a minute.

‘That’s quite all right,’ he finally says. ‘You are correct.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ I tackle the hair at Mrs Piscetti’s left temple. ‘Does anyone have any idea what might have happened?’

His voice, normally so calm and steady and funereal, wavers. ‘Honestly, I feel responsible.’

My heart picks up speed.

‘Responsible?’ I try to keep my focus on the hot rollers instead of on him so as not to make him nervous.

‘Well, clearly, she had problems.’ He turns around to face me, the razor dripping suds and water, and I finally allow myself to meet his troubled gaze. I have to keep him talking …

‘Crappy boyfriend?’

‘Roommate. She was afraid to go home. Sad situation. I can’t help but wonder, if I’d offered to help her out …’

What? Afraid to go home?

‘You think she had an abusive … roommate?’ I.e. me???