My Seventeenth Husband Just Opened His Eyes

By day, I'm a hospice doctor. I sit with the dying and help them say what needs saying before they go.

By night, I do the same thing — for the ones who already went.

Here's what I was born knowing, the way other people are born knowing how to breathe: the dead can speak one last time. But only to a spouse.

My grandmother makes charms for a living. I marry dead men. Every family has its black sheep.

The dead don't care about love. They care about paperwork. A fiancée won't do. A girlfriend won't do. It has to be a legal wife — so for the right price, I become one. I marry the body, I carry the last words like a sealed letter, and I read them out in front of the heirs. Then I burn the marriage certificate, and the whole thing ends at the grave.

My price starts at six hundred thousand dollars. Rich families pay it without blinking, because a dead man with no will is a fortune with no owner.

That day, I was still celebrating one client's estate clearing probate when an urgent request came in.

By my count, this would be my seventeenth husband.

The toast was barely over — Mrs. Hartley raising her glass to "the widow who saved this family," everyone smiling carefully in my direction — when she grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the study.

"Mara, you have to take this. It's big. It's the Cranes."

"The Cranes?"

"Victor Crane's son drowned this morning. The younger twin. Twenty-eight, getting married next month." She lowered her voice. "And not one word left behind. No will. The estate freezes the second the lawyers wake up."

Same story as the Hartleys, a year ago.

"They're offering two million. There's a jet waiting."

An out-of-state job. I almost said no. Then again — the Cranes were the richest family in the country.

I held up five fingers.

Mrs. Hartley blinked. "Five million?"

I kept the fingers up.

She made a call, listened, and let out a breath. "They said yes. They want to speak with you now."

The voice on the phone was old and heavy with grief. He asked if I had any requirements. They would prepare everything in advance.

"Keep his room warm," I said. "And tell the plane to hurry."

"Of course. Is there anything—"

"I mean it about the plane. The dead don't keep."

He agreed to both.

Before I left, I took out a folded marriage certificate — mine and the late Mr. Hartley's — and burned it over a candle on the desk.

"Mrs. Hartley, our business is officially done."

I burn the certificate once the last check clears. Call it my receipt policy.

"Oh." She watched her husband's name curl into ash, then brightened. "So the thing with my nephew — that's off too? You know he doesn't mind what you do—"

"It's off."

He didn't mind. But I don't date the living.

"Mara! I love you! Just one dinner—"

Her nephew chased my car halfway down the driveway.

"Ask me again after my seventeenth divorce," I said, and rolled up the window.

At home I packed a bag and texted my grandmother, who was off on one of her retreats: Good news. We can fix the roof on your shop.

Then I got on the Crane family jet.

Three hours later, I was standing in front of a house the size of a castle.

The crying started before I reached the door.

"The Crane men are cursed. Cursed!"

A young man in a wheelchair rolled toward me, wiping his eyes, a line of staff trailing behind him. White suit. Eyes red from weeping. Still handsome enough to stop traffic.

He talked while he cried, and he cried very well.

His name was Marcus Crane. The dead man was his twin brother, Adrian. They'd been inseparable since they were boys. After breakfast, Adrian had gone down for his morning swim. A few hours later, the staff found him floating in the pool.

"He didn't leave a word, Miss Voss. Not one." Marcus pressed a handkerchief to his eyes. "The board already smells blood. Without his last words, this family is finished. Whatever it takes — and on top of the five million, there will be a bonus."

"A bonus?" My heart sat up. "How much?"

"Another million."

Good. Gran's shop could get new windows too, while we were at it.

I was thrilled. My face stayed solemn.

"Mr. Crane, Mrs. Hartley may not have explained this, but my service comes in tiers. A man like you — grieving, and still thinking of the whole family — I admire that. So I'll offer you a special rate. For just two million more, you can upgrade to the premium package."

Marcus stared at me. "What's the premium package?"

"Standard, your brother speaks." I leaned in and lowered my voice. "Premium — you get to ask him questions."

Strictly true. Though in my experience, the dead like to answer the questions nobody wanted asked.

Marcus looked half convinced and fully desperate, which is my favorite kind of customer. He wired a three-and-a-half-million deposit on the spot.

I was satisfied. I even comforted him for a minute, free of charge.

Then I asked to see the pool. At the edge of the water where Adrian Crane had drowned, I said his full name, and then mine. An engagement, announced to the thing that killed him. The dead appreciate good manners.

By the time I finished, it was dark.

"All right," I said. "Take me to my husband."

They brought me upstairs. Victor Crane sat at the bedside, holding his son's hand, eyes wet. The richest man in the country looked just like he did on TV, only older.

He wiped his face and came to me.

"Miss Voss. This stays inside the family. If you don't mind, I'll hold on to your phone."

I was used to it. Secrets are half of what they pay for.

"Fine. But I have a condition of my own. No cameras in that room. No one listening at the door. If one word of this gets out, the trouble lands on both of us."

"You have my word," said Victor Crane.

Then they walked me in to meet my husband.

He was, by a wide margin, the handsomest one yet.

He was also, by my professional estimate, far too fresh for a man who'd been dead fourteen hours.