Seeming to sense my distress, Cookie took my arm in hers and inched forward. Attendants hugged the men, their sympathy sincere, their loss like gaping holes in their chests. Cookie sniffed and took the hand of Mr. Joyce’s husband, Paul. He was a big man with a warm face and firm handshake, as I found out when it was my turn. Fortunately, he didn’t ask how we knew his beautiful daughter. Cookie and I had come up with a cover story, but so far, we hadn’t had to use it.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, his red-rimmed eyes watering in the process. I could feel the suffocating agony he held at bay. Forcing the words out, any words out, was torture for him. He just wanted to go home and mourn, and my heart ached in response. I wanted to tell him that all the ceremonial stuff would be over soon, and he and his husband could grieve, and heal, together, but it was not the time or the place. Isabel’s friends and family had come to pay their respects. To diminish that would be doing her an injustice.

Cookie squeezed my arm, and I realized I was still holding on to the man’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice. He was fighting tooth and nail to stay vertical. To keep from crumbling to the ground. Mr. Joyce’s arm tightened around his husband’s shoulders as they took a moment to let the sobs overtake them.

It was then that Mr. Joyce realized who stood in front of them. He glanced at his partner, worry flashing in his expression before settling his own red-rimmed gaze on me. I took his hand, leaned in, and whispered to him, “You’ll be with her again. Your soul is all yours. Don’t lose it again.”

When I tried to pull back, he held me to him, buried his face in my shoulder as a fresh round of sobs engulfed him. I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and fought for control over my own emotions. I hated funerals. I hated any rite of passage that emphasized how fleeting and fragile our physical lives were. I hated that children died. Even knowing what I knew about life and the afterlife and the momentary condition of our existence on earth, I hated it. It was better on the other side. I knew that. I’d been told by countless departed, but I hated this part nonetheless.

And just for the record, telling the living how their loved ones were in a better place rarely helped. Nothing helped apart from time, and even then, the long-term prognosis was sketchy. Most recovered. Many did not. Not really. Not fully.

* * *

After the funeral, I had one more errand to run before I could take the evening off to elevate my throbbing ankle. I felt a scalding hot bubble bath was long overdue. Combine that with a little candlelight, a glass of sparkling wine, and a real-life fiancé named Reyes, and I might have a wonderful evening. Only the fiancé named Reyes was still recovering from his fall. I had no idea how extensive the damage was as I’d fallen asleep the moment we got home, but having him so close to me, his heat permeating the sheets, enveloping me in a heavenly and healing warmth, sent me into a deep slumber. He was gone when I woke up that morning, his freshly showered scent bathing the area, making me crave at least a glimpse of him, but I’d been running late for the funeral, so I didn’t get a chance to go to the bar before I left.

And seeing him would have to wait a little while longer. I pulled Misery to a stop in front of Rocket’s place. The abandoned mental asylum had been cleaned, the grounds cleared, and a sparkling new chain-link fence bordered the entire area. I took out my key and glanced over at Cookie.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked her. She’d never met Rocket or his sister, Blue. Nor had she been introduced to Officer Taft’s sister, Rebecca—or Strawberry Shortcake, as I liked to call her, mostly because she’d died in Strawberry Shortcake pajamas, but partly because calling her Strawberry was safer than calling her the plethora of other names that surfaced every time I saw her. She was a handful. And she had issues.

Cookie was gazing wide-eyed at the building. She nodded, then turned toward me, biting her lower lip, her nerves getting the better of her. “You’ll have to interpret.”

“I promise,” I said.

After managing our way through the locked gate and the locks on the main entrance, we stepped inside cautiously. Cookie was cautious because she wasn’t super fond of abandoned mental asylums. Especially haunted ones. I was cautious because the last time I’d seen Rocket, I wasn’t very nice to him. He’d told me Reyes was going to die. I didn’t take it well. In fact, it was a fairly low point in my life, if one could measure low points by how many times one threatened to rip five-year-old girls—namely, Rocket’s sister, Blue—to shreds.

I cringed when I thought of it. Cookie noticed as I hobbled along beside her. While the outside had been cleared and maintained to perfection, the inside was still in a state of chaotic ruin. Bits of the crumbling plaster cluttered the floor, along with trash and other paraphernalia that had been left throughout the years. Many a partier had celebrated life here. Along with Rocket’s scribbling and scratches was all kinds of evidence of how many times the place had been broken into. Spray paint on the walls. Empty beer bottles and soda cans. The occasional used condom, which evoked a gag reflex every time I saw one. This place needed a good scrubbing.

“Has he ever been angry with you?” Cookie asked, referring to how I’d left things with Rocket.

“No, but he should be now. If he’s not, I’ll feel worse than I already do.”

“So, you deserve his wrath, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yep.”

Before she could argue, a young, high-pitched voice echoed throughout the halls. I winced at the sound of it. It had a certain je ne sais quoi nails-on-chalkboard quality that one didn’t find every day.

“Just where on God’s green earth have you been?” Strawberry appeared before me, her long hair hanging in tangles around her pretty face. Her pajamas had gotten soiled when she drowned, but they were still pink and cute and sweet. Unlike, say, Strawberry.

I hesitated. She’d been there during my lesser moment, and I didn’t know if she was still mad at me or not. The departed could hold a grudge like nobody’s business.

“Hey, kid,” I said at last.

In my periphery, Cookie was looking where I was, even though I knew she couldn’t see the beautiful girl standing in our path. She was such a good egg, and way more handy than a crutch. This way I could lean my weight on her and not have to worry about dragging around a huge piece of metal. And Cookie finally got to see Rocket’s place. It was a win–win.

“Well?” Strawberry asked. “Where have you been? He’s very upset.”

“Is he mad at me?”

She crossed her tiny arms over her chest. “He won’t stop, and he has work to do. He’s very behind.”

Rocket’s work, if one could call it that, was carving into the plastered walls of the asylum the names of all those who pass, which contributed greatly to their crumbling and dilapidation. Thousands upon thousands of names lined almost every inch of the interior of the asylum, a fact that Cookie was just noticing. She made a slow circle, taking in the décor. I had to reposition my hand over her arms and shoulders to keep my footing as she circled. It was quite awkward when I grabbed hold of one of her girls, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“This place is incredible,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s just so creepy and yet cool at the same time.”

“Right?”

Strawberry jammed her fists onto her slim hips. “Well?” she repeated.

When Cookie took my arm into hers again, I refocused on Strawberry. “He won’t stop what, honey?”

Her chin raised a notch. “I can’t tell you.”

I was getting used to this beguiling creature, much as I hated to admit it, and I asked, “Can you show me, then?”

One shoulder lifted and her attention flitted to Cookie as though just noticing her. “Who is that?”