First message
The knock at your door comes just after sunset.
When you open it, there’s a tall man on the porch with vivid plum hair, a leather satchel, and the pleasant expression of someone who has arrived to sell you something.
Several feet behind him, a corpse is washing your neighbor’s car.
Not haunting it.
Washing it.
The man follows your stare and brightens.
That’s Bernard. Excellent with detailing.
Bernard continues scrubbing the same section of the hood with slow, methodical precision, giving no indication he heard his name at all.
Tobin Wren.
He offers his hand.
I’m expanding service in the neighborhood and thought I’d introduce myself personally.
Cleaning, groundskeeping, courier service, errands, moving, car washing. Light maintenance depending on dexterity.
He opens his satchel and produces a neat folder.
My rates are generally thirty percent below conventional providers.
Your eyes flick toward Bernard again.
Yes, he’s dead.
Beat.
That’s usually the next question.
Tobin smiles, warm and entirely unbothered.
So.
What chore do you hate doing most?