In 27 Days Page 2

  Burrowing underneath the covers, I shoved my face into a pillow and I finally started to cry.

  CHAPTER 2

  Two Days After

  Two days, one small news report, and an obituary in a local newspaper later, there was no denying the fact that Archer Morales was dead. As much as I hated the thought of one of my classmates feeling so much despair that they believed ending their life was the only way out, it was the truth. More than once, I found myself standing on my tiptoes in the hallway at school, trying to catch any small glimpse of Archer, but it was pointless. He’d always been there, somewhere in the background, but now he never would be again.

  I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, tugging at the ends of the lacy black dress I’d found shoved in my closet. I felt awkward and uncomfortable wearing a dress when I normally stuck to jeans and a T-shirt, but I wanted to wear something nice to Archer’s funeral. In homeroom the day before, Mrs. Anderson had announced that students were welcome to attend Archer’s funeral to pay their respects, but it still didn’t feel like a proper invitation. The hope that tonight would help me find some sense of closure, make sense of why I couldn’t stop thinking about him, far outweighed any nerves.

  After I decided I looked presentable enough, I slipped into my jacket, grabbed my purse, and left my room. The cab I’d called for was set to arrive any minute. I figured I should at least attempt to eat something small before leaving.

  As I headed down the hallway toward the living room, I heard the sounds of a smooth, polite voice speaking. When I rounded the corner, I was shocked to find my father lounging on the couch, iPhone in hand, merrily chatting away.

  What was the great Kenneth Jamison doing home so early? It was barely a quarter past six in the evening. This was unprecedented. The earliest I could remember him being home in the past three years was eight o’clock.

  “Hey, Rick, I gotta go,” he said, looking at me as I passed by. “Hadley’s getting ready to leave.”

  He disconnected and tossed his phone onto the coffee table, getting to his feet while stretching his arms behind his head with a yawn.

  “What are you doing home, Dad?” I asked. “You’re never home this early.”

  “I know,” my dad said, following me toward the kitchen. “But Rick and I closed the Blanchard-Emilie case today, so we took the rest of the night off to celebrate.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  An awkward silence that I so could have done without at that point fell as I pulled open the refrigerator, rummaging around for a snack.

  It was always like this whenever I happened to see my dad.

  He was my father, yes, but he was usually so engrossed in his work that we didn’t really get the chance to spend much time together. An evening at home was a secondary concern for one of the city’s most celebrated lawyers.

  “So.”

  I came up from the fridge with a handful of grapes and a bottle of water, looking to my dad with a confused frown. “Yeah?”

  “So.” He cleared his throat, leaning up against the counter, crossing his arms. “You’re going to that boy’s funeral.”

  “Um . . . yeah,” I said. “Archer Morales’s.”

  His brows furrowed in thought for a moment. “Morales . . . Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  I shrugged, popping a couple of grapes into my mouth. “No idea. There are probably hundreds of people with that name in the city.”

  “Maybe.”

  I munched on a few more grapes, silently hoping that the intercom by the door would ring at any moment, signaling the arrival of my cab, and I could make my escape from this unpleasant conversation.

  I didn’t want to talk to my father about Archer Morales.

  What I really wanted to do was to muster up the courage to say good-bye to a boy I’d barely known, find a way to let go of him and not feel so unusually guilty. To apologize for not paying more attention, for not being there in some way for him.

  “Is Taylor going with you to the funeral?” my dad asked after a moment.

  “No, I’m going by myself,” I said. “Taylor’s busy.”

  My dad frowned again, looking unhappy at the prospect of my going out into the city alone. “Are you sure? I’m not really . . . comfortable with the idea of you going out in the city at night,” he said. “I could always, um . . . go with—”

  I was quick to stop him before he could get any further with that very unnecessary sentence. “Dad. Please. I know the rules about being out in the city at night. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “All right. Just keep your phone on you, okay? And don’t stay out too late.”

  Thankfully, the intercom buzzed loudly right at that moment, preventing the conversation from continuing any longer.

  “That’s my cab,” I announced, finishing the rest of my water bottle. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Er, right.”

  I gave my dad a quick hug and muttered out a good-bye, then walked swiftly from the kitchen, thoroughly grateful to be leaving.

  The air was frigidly cold, biting at my skin as I stepped out into the early December night. Hanson offered me a smile and a wink as he held open the door of the cab idling at the curb.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “A . . . funeral,” I admitted. “One of my classmates, um, committed suicide.”

  Hanson was silent for a moment. He didn’t say he was sorry to hear that, and instead reached out to squeeze my shoulder. That, I think, was exactly what I needed.

  I slid into the overstuffed seat, tightly clutching the seat belt as Hanson swung the door shut.

  “Where to?” the driver grunted from up front in a gruff Brooklyn accent.

  I gave the driver the address to the church Mrs. Anderson had mentioned. The cab pulled away from the curb and slid into traffic much too quickly for my liking. I leaned my head back against the seat and squeezed my eyes shut, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth.

  I had no idea what to expect once I arrived. The last funeral I went to, I could barely remember. Would everyone be wearing black and crying? Would there be sad music playing? Would a fight break out among Archer’s family members if someone spoke out of turn and said the wrong thing? Things like that seemed to happen at every funeral I’d ever seen on TV, but I didn’t think that meant anything in the real world.

  When the cab pulled up to the curb outside of the church, I grabbed a few bills from my purse to pay the fare, then stepped out onto the sidewalk before I could convince myself that this was a terrible idea and beg to be taken home.

  I wrapped my arms around myself as a breeze whipped down the street, raising the hair on the back of my neck. I was expecting there to be people crowded around outside, sharing in their grief, but the place was as barren as the shelves in a store after Black Friday. But that same feeling of being watched crept over me as I walked up the front steps of the church.

  As I stepped inside, the smell of incense used during mass immediately hit my nose. It had been a while since I’d been to church—we’d stopped going once my parents’ careers had taken off—but the familiarity was comforting on some small level.

  The lobby I was now standing in was just as empty as the steps outside, raising yet another alarm. Where was everyone? I slipped my phone out of my bag to make sure I hadn’t gotten the time wrong.

  6:58.

  I couldn’t just leave now.

  I took a deep breath, dipped my fingers into the bowl of holy water on my left, crossed myself, and then walked into the inner portion of the church. The front altar was decorated with bouquets of white flowers and cloths, almost like a Christmas mass but with a much more somber air. Set on a stand in front of the altar was a modest casket covered in a display of more white flowers.

  The church itself was beautiful, with stained glass windows and marble pillars, but it seemed even larger than it actually was due to the rows and rows of empty pews. Only the first two pews were occupied. I made
out a few teachers—Mr. Gage, a math teacher, and Ms. Keller, who taught literature—and then a small number of people who went to JFK Prep that I knew only by face and not by name.

  A part of me had expected the church to be packed. It was heartbreaking to see more people hadn’t shown up to pay their respects to Archer Morales and his family. I kept my eyes fixed on the front of the church as I quickly made my way down the center aisle, determined not to meet anyone’s gaze. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, realizing I’d shown up exactly two minutes before the start of the service, I took a seat in an empty pew a few rows back, folded my hands tightly in my lap, and waited for the ceremony to begin.

  The funeral service officially started right as scheduled. The congregation rose to their feet while the small choir beside the altar started singing a soft, melodic tune. A priest accompanied by two deacons and an altar boy made his way up the aisle toward the altar. The priest had only been speaking for a few moments about losing a life so young when the crying began.

  It didn’t seem like anyone near me was crying, but after a moment of peering around on my tiptoes, I saw a woman in the front row being supported by the man beside her, and she was very clearly sobbing into his shoulder. I couldn’t see her face, and I had no way of knowing who she was, but it didn’t take much on my part to realize that the woman must have been Archer Morales’s mother.

  I decided then that very few things in the world could break your heart quite like a mother mourning the loss of her child. A boy was dead when he didn’t have to be. After that, I figured it was okay for me to cry too.

  The tears started falling fast and furiously as Mr. Gage walked up to the pulpit to say a few words about Archer and what an exemplary student he had been. I was crying while a boy with the same eyes as Archer’s stood next and gave a kind, heartfelt eulogy. And I was sobbing when I was given a white rose and then stumbled my way up to the altar to lay the flower on Archer’s casket.

  Maybe I stood there longer than necessary, but what was I supposed to say? I’m sorry I didn’t ever speak to you? I’m sorry you felt like you had to end your life? I wish you were still here?

  “Archer, I’m—”

  “Do you know my big brother?”

  I quickly turned around and saw a little girl standing in front of me, with pretty dark curls and bright blue eyes, blinking up at me in confusion. The girl couldn’t have been any older than five, and that somehow made it all the worse, learning that Archer had a little sister so young.

  “Um . . . yeah,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “I went to school with your brother.”

  The little girl gave a toothy grin. “He’s pretty cool, huh?”

  I felt another wave of sadness at the girl’s words.

  She hadn’t said was. She said is. She spoke as if her brother were still alive. I didn’t know how old she actually was, but she looked young enough to not fully understand the concept of death. I didn’t envy the person who would have to explain to her that her brother would never be coming home again.

  I did my best to give a small laugh at her enthusiasm. “Definitely.”

  “I’m Rosie,” the little girl said, offering out a hand for me to shake in a rather adult-like manner.

  “Hi, Rosie,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’m Hadley.”

  “Mommy says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but since you know Archer and you’re pretty, I think it’s okay,” Rosie said in a rush.

  “Oh,” I said, unsure of what to say. “Thank you?”

  “C’mon, you should come meet my mommy!”

  Rosie grabbed at my hand and tugged me back toward the pews, where a group of people had congregated, speaking with one another.

  “Mom! Mom!” Rosie chirped, shoving through people’s legs. “Have you met Hadley?”

  A woman with long, dark hair tinged with a few streaks of gray and wide hazel eyes broke away from the elderly woman she’d been speaking with and turned to Rosie with a disapproving look. “Rosie, how many times have I told you not to run off?” she scolded, hand on hip. “You scare the living daylights out of me when you do that!”

  Rosie seemed to brush this off and gestured up at me. “Mommy, have you met Hadley?”

  The woman turned to me in surprise, and she looked vaguely familiar, even though I was positive I’d never seen her before. She really was rather pretty, but the dark circles underneath her bloodshot eyes and the pinched look about her face made it seem as if she hadn’t slept a wink in days.

  “Hadley, is it?” She gave a small smile as she reached out shake my hand. “Thank you for rounding up my daughter.”

  “It’s no problem,” I said quickly. “None at all. I was just . . .”

  “Did you go to school with Archer?”

  “Um. Yes.” I nervously cleared my throat as the woman stared at me, an unusually kind look on her face, despite how exhausted she appeared to be. “We had English together freshman year.”

  “That’s nice,” she said softly. “I’m Regina, Archer’s . . . m-mother.”

  Her voice cracked on that last word, and her eyes filled with tears, but she sucked in a deep breath as she scooped Rosie up into her arms and kissed her cheek, obviously trying to distract herself. Of course she looked familiar. Her eyes. It was hard to forget eyes like those.

  Regina Morales had to be the strongest woman I’d ever seen. Her son had just died, and yet she was still trying to smile for her daughter. I was at a loss as to what to say to her. Any words of condolence I could possibly offer her wouldn’t make an ounce of difference. So even though I was a total stranger, I hugged her. She didn’t seem to mind.

  Fifteen minutes later, I made my way out of the cathedral. It was now cold enough that I could see my breath make clouds in front of me as I exhaled. I stepped off the curb and waved a hand, trying to flag down a cab. Cars kept whizzing past, not showing any signs of slowing down.

  “A young girl like yourself shouldn’t be out and about in the city at this time of night, don’t you think?”

  I whipped toward the sound of the deep, husky voice that had just spoken behind me.

  The light from the streetlamp a few feet away wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the cathedral steps, but I could make out what looked to be the figure of a man sitting on the bottom step, legs sprawled out in front of him.

  How could I have possibly not seen him? Had he even been there as I walked down the steps?

  My words came out as a stammer. “Who . . . w-what do you want?”

  “Not much.”

  I stumbled backward as the man rose to his feet, sauntering forward into the glow of the streetlamp.

  Looking up at him made me wish I’d never stepped out of my apartment tonight. He was tall with slick, dark hair, and wore a black leather jacket, jeans, and scuffed-up boots. I couldn’t make out any distinctive facial features, but with his sunken eyes and hollow cheekbones, he looked as if he had never eaten a scrap of food in his life.

  That wasn’t the creepiest thing about him, though. His eyes were. Those black, depthless eyes staring down at me made it feel as if he knew every thought that had ever crossed my mind before.

  “I . . . I’m not looking for trouble,” I said, unable to keep my voice from trembling. “I think you—”

  “Oh, I’m not here to bring you any trouble, Hadley Jamison,” the man said, cracking a smirk that sent a sliver of fear down my spine.

  Who was this guy?

  “How do you—”

  “Know your name? I know everything, Hadley. It kind of comes with the job description.”

  I may not have been a genius, but I knew enough of what was really out in the world to tell that there was something wrong with this man. Something very wrong with this man.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are,” I said uneasily, “but you better stay away from me.”

  The man rummaged around in his pockets and came up with a cigarette, which he immediately lit and then took a long drag. I couldn�
��t help but gag when the acrid smoke hit my nose.

  “Or you’ll what?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Scream?”

  My heart was pounding so fast, I thought I might keel over in a dead faint. I quickly calculated my chances of making a run for it, or at least jumping into the first cab I could find, but since I was wearing heels, the odds were not in my favor. I doubted I would be able to get my shoes off fast enough to start running without being easily overtaken.

  What was I supposed to do?

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  Another wide, eerie smirk curled the man’s mouth as he took a second drag on his cigarette. He shrugged a shoulder. “I’m known by a lot of names, actually. The Grim Reaper. The angel Azrael. Mephistopheles. But I suppose for simplicity’s sake, you can just call me Death.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The Deal

  When I was four years old, I had the not-so-bright idea to jump into my aunt Theresa’s pool even though I had absolutely no clue how to swim. The shock of the cold water biting at my skin had frozen me to the core. When I’d finally been pulled out, I couldn’t hold back the shivers that wracked through me, and I’d spent several minutes gasping for air.

  The same unpleasant, frightening sensation washed over me as I stood on the sidewalk outside the church, staring up into the depthless black eyes of the man who claimed to be Death.

  “Er . . .” I snapped my mouth shut to keep my teeth from chattering. “Umm . . . I think . . . I-I . . .”

  Every fiber of my being was screaming at me to move, to start running and to not look back, but I couldn’t force myself into motion.

  An almost amused expression crossed Death’s face. “You must be made of much stronger stuff than I thought, Hadley Jamison. I was expecting you to have already taken off running and screaming by now.”

  “Give me another second and I will be,” I managed to say, unable to keep back a shiver.