Better Dead Than Married

They went all out for Keyla's birthday. She threw a fake tantrum, downed too many drinks, and even though they were on duty, Edmond and Philip hovered around her like she was gonna break.

Tea, water, nonstop worrying.

Watching them fawn over her made my chest tighten. I glanced at Ariel.

"I need a comedy."

"Same."

Back when we were alive, dumb comedies were our go-to—blankets, snacks, full-on giggles.

But there's no laughing in the afterlife.

Edmond and Philip guarded her like she was made of glass. I wondered if they'd still be playing knight once the truth hit.

I remembered the day she took us—how she just stood there, watching us panic. She let us hope. Then crushed it.

Straight-up evil.

The next morning, maybe out of guilt, Edmond and Philip hit us up again after leaving Keyla's.

When we still didn't answer, Philip started looking thrown.

"Ariel's never stayed mad this long. Don't you think it's kinda extreme?"

For a sec, I thought—finally. Maybe his detective brain was kicking in. Maybe he'd realize we didn't just ghost them out of spite.

Then the phone rang.

Edmond's autopsy request got approved.

Boom—conversation over. They ditched the topic and bolted back to the station.

We followed.