The Lies That Bind

28: Faithful John

You're not the only one with scars.

"Oh, shoot."

Startled from her thoughts about pancakes and an uncertain future, Calla glanced up from the filing cabinet in the mortuary's upstairs office, which she'd only just started to reorganize. The Director sometimes had her try to tackle the mess that had accumulated over the years. A losing battle.

He looked over at her now from behind his reading spectacles. Not reading glasses, he would always tell her. Spectacles. As if the distinction was somehow important. "Would you mind grabbing some of that window cleaner down in the basement?" He returned his attention back to his computer. "Oh!" Wide eyes flying back to her face. "And a couple spare rolls of paper towels, if you can. We're running low in the kitchen."

Calla had no idea how either of those things merited an oh, shoot—but she abandoned the cabinet anyway, relieved to be free of the tedious work. "Sure. "I'll be right back."

"Try not to fall down the stairs," he called after her.

"That was one time," she called back, his chuckle following her down the hall.

Still, she minded her step as she descended the stairs and slipped into the examination room, shuddering at the frigid temperature. The Director liked to keep this particular room at a steady thirty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. Not thirty-six. Not thirty-eight.

Thirty-seven.

She rapped her knuckles along the storage containers in the far wall—dead body cribs, the Director liked to call them, much to her amusement—as she passed them by on her way to the basement door.

Admittedly, basement was a stretch. Shutting the door firmly behind her so that the cold couldn't escape, she used her phone's flashlight to guide her way down a set of rickety wooden steps that led down into a shallow crawl space stuffed with all manner of crap—cardboard boxes and dusty old books and even a discarded coffin, which somehow always managed to give her the creeps.

An admirable feat.

Calla pillaged the items the Director requested from the off-white cabinet by the stairs, grimacing at the dust that accumulated on her fingers. Grumbling about the blasted dark and dust and why the hell does this building have a basement, anyway, she tucked the Windex under her arm and, paper towels balanced in hand, carefully ascended the steps in semi-darkness. 

Try not to fall down the stairs, she told herself dryly, nudging open the basement door with her hip.

Returning to the office with her bounty, the Director smiled, triumphant as she deposited the items on the edge of his desk. "Thank you." He immediately reached for the Windex and turned to glare at the stubborn spot on the window that had been there for at least as long as Calla had held the job. "It's about time I cleaned this place up."

Calla eyed the cluttered shelves and the hopelessly mismatched files jutting out of the nearby cabinet. Cleaning this place up would require more than a single bottle of Windex, she wagered, plucking a file out of the cabinet's top drawer, curious. 

Tax returns. She returned the file with a grimace and selected another one at random.

"Oh. I almost forgot." The Director's tone remained neutral, his shrewd gaze fixated on the stubborn spot on the window—but there was a curious undercurrent to the words that made her look over at him. "A man dropped by earlier. Said he was a friend of your mother's."

Calla froze, the manilla folder poised between her hands. "A man?" she asked evenly.

Alarm bells ring-ring-ringing in her head.