Chapter 1 Between Life and Death
Elena's Pov
I'm sitting on a stool in the corner, invisible to every human in the room, with my black book open on my knee and absolutely nothing interesting to look at.
A few feet away, a man named Arthur is crammed into a booth with a plate of scrambled eggs and absolutely no idea that he has four minutes left to live.
"I told you, honey, I'll send the money tonight," he says into his phone, laughing as he chews with zero concern for anyone around him.
"The check cleared this morning. Five thousand dollars. It's all yours. We can finally pay off the debt."
I look down at his entry in my book.
Arthur Miller. 8:00 AM. Cardiac arrest. Table seven.
I check the clock on the wall and see that it reads 7:56.
Four minutes until Arthur Miller's last meal.
He's still completely convinced he has a future and a wife and a debt to pay off by the end of the week. He listens to whatever she's saying on the other end and grins.
"I know. I love you too. I'm just finishing breakfast, then I'll—"
He stops mid-sentence.
His eyes go wide and glassy. The phone slips from his fingers and cracks against the table. Both hands grip the edge of the booth like he's trying to hold the world in place. His face turns a deep, bruised purple that no living person's face should ever be.
I stand up from the stool and close my book.
Arthur's body slumps forward and his forehead hits the table with a dull, heavy thud that makes the salt shaker rattle. The diner erupts into chaos all around him as though the universe has been waiting for permission to panic.
"He's choking! Someone call 911!"
I step through the chaos like it isn't there, because for me, it isn't. A woman throws herself over Arthur trying to perform CPR. A teenager bolts for the door screaming loud enough to shake the windows. A waitress drops an entire tray of glasses and doesn't even notice the sound they make when they shatter.
I stand over Arthur and I wait.
A pale, shimmering version of him peels slowly away from the body like a second skin being shed. His spirit blinks at its own hands, looks down at the crowd of people desperately trying to save him, and then turns and looks at me.
"What..." His voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "What just happened? Why are they all touching me like that?"
I hold up the book so he can see his name glowing white on the open page. "Arthur Miller. Time of death: 8:00 AM. You're dead."
"No!" He reaches instinctively for the phone still lying on the table, and his hand passes straight through it like it's made of smoke.
"No, I have to send that money. My wife is waiting for it. I promised her tonight, I promised—"
"The dead don't make bank transfers, Arthur."
He stares at me like I've said something monstrous, and maybe I have, but I stopped measuring my words against human feelings a very long time ago.
"Who are you?" he whispers. "Are you an angel?"
They always ask that. Every single one of them, without fail, as though it matters what label they put on me. Are you an angel? Are you Death? Are you the Devil? The answer has always been too complicated for the amount of time we have together, so I've stopped trying to explain it properly.
Humans have a hundred names for what I am. I don't particularly care for any of them. To me, it's just a job with very specific requirements. Record the name. Guide the soul. Maintain the balance. Go home and do it again tomorrow.
"I'm your guide," I say. "Follow the light ahead of you and don't look back, because your life here is finished."
I raise one hand and make a sharp downward gesture. Arthur's spirit flickers like a candle caught in a draft and then disappears completely, leaving behind nothing but the sound of strangers crying over a man they didn't even know.
I close the book and tuck it under my arm.
"They always have one last thing to do," I mutter to the empty space beside me. "Every single time."
I'm two steps from leaving when the book starts vibrating in my hand so violently it nearly shakes loose from my grip. The cover turns warm, then hot. The pages begin flipping by themselves in a frantic rush, faster and faster, until they slam open to a new entry that wasn't there sixty seconds ago.
A burst of gold light washes across my vision and forces me to blink.
When my eyes clear, an image is forming slowly on the page like a photograph developing in a darkroom. It isn't a name yet, just a face. A girl, young and trembling, standing on the edge of a rooftop in the pouring rain.
I groan out loud at the ceiling. "Two in one hour? This school is a disaster."
The name bleeds onto the page in dark red ink, slow and deliberate, like something alive dragging itself into existence.
Next Target: Chloe Anthony.
Time: 10:15 AM.
Location: St. Jude's Academy.
Cause: Fall.
"A high school student." I snap the book shut hard enough to make a sound and push myself to my feet. "Those are always the loudest ones."
Then I vanish.
I reappear in a high school classroom that smells overwhelmingly of stress and whiteboard markers, and the drama has already started without me.
The fluorescent lights overhead are too bright and too white. I settle onto the edge of the teacher's empty desk and swing my legs, taking in the scene in front of me.
A woman in an expensive designer suit is screaming at a boy who has a bright red handprint blooming across one cheek like a brand. Her gold jewelry catches the harsh classroom light every time she moves her hands, which is constantly.
Everything about her posture and her clothes says money and power. Everything about the way the boy is standing says I've dealt with worse than you.
"Stay away from my daughter!" she shrieks, loud enough that the students nearest to her actually flinch backward.
I open my book and check the time against the entry still glowing on the page. It reads 10:11.
I look across the room at the girl standing frozen in the crowd. Chloe Anthony is shaking so hard I can see it clearly from where I'm sitting, her hands balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides, tears already cutting tracks down her face before she's even made the decision to run.
"Humans," I say to the empty air beside me. "They're fighting about who is dating who while the girl is four minutes away from a six-story drop. They never see the real tragedy until it's already happened.”