Chapter One

As the car ran over my body for the second time, I realized that someone wanted me dead. A disconcerting thought, especially since whoever the whoremongering mouth-breather was, they had succeeded. I was dead. Dead, Dead, Dead. In a deserted strip mall parking lot, watching one glowing red brake light fade in the distance.

Frankly, this was not my best day.

“Oh, balls,” I muttered. Well, I thought. I can talk. How about that. There’s no end to life’s enduring mystery—even for the dead. I decided then and there not to dwell too much on how I could possibly move and, you know, exist with no heartbeat. I knew my cartoons. And if by some insanity I was Wile E. Coyote, then by God I was going to keep walking on air. No looking down.

The car with the broken taillight had mostly hit my torso. I peeled back my jacket to find one of my ribs sticking out of my chest. The bone glowed dully in the yellow light. My blood looked like iodine. I poked the protruding rib. I knew I should be in agonizing torture, but it was as if all that pain was locked in a box in my head. I could access it if I wanted to, or ignore it. So, thinking, Why not? I grabbed the jagged end of my bone, and pulled. There was a wet sucking sound and out popped a piece of curved rib bone the size of my middle finger. I put it in my pocket.

“All right Rachael,” I said to myself. “You need to get up now.”

As I got to my feet, there was a crispy settling in my hip like it had been stuffed with high fiber cereal. My left hand had also been damaged—I think the second time the car ran me over. I held both hands up to see better in the light of the street lamp. The left one was slightly larger now, especially the thumb, which was the size of a nectarine. I was covered in blood and dirt from the tires. I couldn’t stay outside looking like this.

The Chiropractic/Hypnotist Center’s bright neon sign next to my office made it difficult to make out the white lettering centered on the front door: Monday Incorporated, but I could clearly see that the lock had been forced open. My office had been ransacked. The desk was turned over. Papers, file folders were scattered, torn, and trampled on. Of course.

I had gone into business for myself after graduating law school and incorrectly concluding that I was in any way qualified. I dealt mostly in drafting Wills—advising Baby Boomers on how to best divvy out their assets when they died of a) heart disease or b) heart disease. Occasionally, I also represented clients in disputes over relatives’ estates or living wills. People could get pretty touchy about not getting what they thought was owed them.

Ah money. The oldest reason in the book for murder. Or the most popular. Something like that. And I dealt in money everyday.

I would have to get cleaned up, cover my injuries as best I could, sit down and think about things. Sweet revenge was of course my first priority. I didn’t have any obligations other than to myself. My parents had died three and four years ago, respectively. No siblings, I had a couple of friends, but no one really close, no boyfriend. My business associate, D.B. was the person I spent the most time with, and he worked for me, so I paid him to be around.

First off, I rummaged through what was left of my office. It didn’t take me long to discover that the Scribler file and more importantly the Scribler Will was missing. That’s why I had driven to the office on a Saturday night—to get that bloody Will. I hadn’t made across half the parking lot when I had been murdered. I must have surprised whoever had torn apart my office. I dropped to the floor and let out deep breath.

Then I messed myself. It was a strange sensation—the ultimate letting go. The room filled with a rich, sticky odor. The complete confusion I felt was utterly beyond me. I sat for a while, my mouth open, trying to process what had just happened. I mean, what! With no warning my body had decided against all reason to poop without my permission.

“Son of a whore.” I looked down at myself. Apparently I was cold, judging by the wet hot mess I felt squishing beneath my underwear. “This. Is. Not. Good.”

I gingerly got to my feet. When I felt a warm trickle start sliding down my leg I gritted my teeth and ran for the tiny bathroom in the back. Cleaning supplies were stored under the sink. I stripped as quickly as I could. My clothes landed in the corner with a plop. Soap wasn’t going to cut it. I filled with sink with cold water and a generous amount of bleach. Warm water, even at room temperature kills the disinfecting agent. And I required all kinds of disinfection.

Luckily I kept a set of workout clothes at the office for all those times I liked thinking about going to the gym. Clean and smelling like a public pool I headed to my car. I couldn’t stay at my office. In about an hour, opening shift workers would start parking in the lot where a large bloodstain coagulated next to tire marks. Questions would be asked. And I didn’t plan on sticking around to answer them.