Love's Resurrection, A Deadly Game

and chilled meat, a clean, sharp

one and sinew with a single, practiced motion. My name is Lisa, and most people in this small to

don't pay

rs. Gable," I said, wrapping the

ng on the stainless-steel hooks and the pristine white tile. She always

ttle too loud. "It' s just so... unusual. A

le I gave everyone. "So

y say you' re a bit of a bad luck c

across the counter

y respects,"

he door as if the smell of raw meat might cling to her

ho was too pretty for her job and too com

' t see t

lue-collar way, and it explains the calluses on my hands and my toler

family business." I call it b

l love. I deal with the loose ends of the dead. Sometimes, it' s a message tha

eet under. My job is to perform a ritual, a symbolic union that ensures the family' s spiritual line continues, appeasing the ancestors and securing the f

oor, the rain started. It beat against the windows of my small apartment above the shop. I

ht. No one used that

peephole, I saw a small, elderly woman huddled under a large black umbrella. She was soaked, her face pale an

rack, leaving the cha

ce trembling. "I was told you co

l through me. She wasn' t her

son," I said, my hand t

through the crack in the door. It

, her eyes pleading. "It' s just the deposit. I' ll p

hop made in three years. It was enough to fix the leaky roof, buy a new freezer,

d. Pragmatism won,

the woman inside, out of the rain. "

led herself Mrs. Dubois. She sat on the edge of my

s my only child. The heir to our family' s fortune. He died... befor

the kitchen. "I understand. The fee is high. This so

on. "The situation is... delicate. His death was an accident, a terrible car crash. It was very publi

one. Rich people always had delicate

d, pulling a notepad and pen from a drawer. "And a recent photograp

lled out a small, leather-bound folder. She han

official-looking. A death certificate

icture, and the a

full of the same charming light I remembered, t

as A

y life five years ago without a word. The o

Alex Chen. It was Alexander Dubois. An

den disappearance, and now this. An old woman offering me a fortune to

e photo, my express

etraying none of the chaos erupting inside me. "If the details aren'

es narrowed. "Wha

im," I said. "Before

was walking into a trap, and the bait

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