The thing about being dead is that it gives you perspective. The living worry about their futures, their legacies, how they'll be remembered when they're gone. Me? I already know. Nobody remembers Samuel Faust, BCPD detective. Just the skeleton he left behind, the one that won't stay buried.

  Rain hammered Blackridge like it had a personal vendetta, the kind that ends with somebody wearing a Chicago overcoat. The gray dawn tried to muscle its way through my office window but couldn't quite make the cut. The city sprawled below like a dame who'd seen better days—still showing curves in the right places but rough around the edges and hiding more secrets than a confessional on Saturday night.

  I stood at the window, watching smoke curl from the Ashtown Furnaces, mingling with the fog that rolled in from Dead Channel Harbor. My reflection stared back—just a skull with empty sockets where eyes should be, a fedora at an angle that tempted fate, and a jaw locked in an eternal grin that hadn't meant business in three years.

  Three years since I'd clawed my way out of that pine box. Three years of being a secondhand soul in a city where even the living were half-dead most days.

  I pulled out my gold pocket watch—the one with the bullet hole that matched the one somebody had put through my chest. Both of us damaged goods, still ticking against all odds. Six-thirty. Another day at the Dead End.

  I took a final drag from my cigarette, watching the smoke drift through my rib cage. A waste of good tobacco, but old habits are the toughest customers to shake, even when you're nothing but bones in a two-bit suit.

  The radiator in the corner knocked like it was casing the joint, struggling against the damp chill that never quite lifted from this building, hanging around like an unwelcome memory. The bourbon on my desk—twelve-year-old stuff I couldn't drink but poured anyway—caught what little light seeped through the window. Twelve years of aging just to end up in the glass of a skeleton. There was a metaphor there, but I was too tired to reach for it.

  "Another day of reading cold," I muttered, my voice a gravel road that had seen too many trucks and not enough repair.

  The outer door opened at seven on the dot. Sylvia Cooper—punctual as a bullet from a bean-shooter. Her arrival was a familiar rhythm: umbrella folding with a snap like a mobster's fingers, rain-speckled overcoat hung with military precision, the muffled clink of a thermos being set on her desk. She moved like someone who'd spent a lifetime trying not to be noticed, caught between worlds with those pointed ears and her mixed blood.

  "Morning, grave walker," she called through the door, using the street slang with just enough irony to take the edge off. "You decent in there, or are you rattling around in your altogether again?"

  I straightened my tie—a habit death hadn't cured. "Come in, Sylv. I'm as put-together as this bag of bones gets."

  The door opened, and there she stood—Sylvia Cooper, twenty-seven years old with the eyes of someone who'd seen a century's worth of this city's ugliness. Half-human, half-elf, and not quite at home in either skin. Sharp as a shiv in her burgundy vest and tailored slacks, dark hair pulled back so tight I'd have winced if I still had nerves to pinch. She carried a manila folder and that air of quiet competence that made most of our clients trust her more than the skeleton in the room.

  "You've been up all night again," she said, taking in the fresh burn mark on my desk where another cigarette had smoldered down to nothing. Not a question. The dame didn't waste breath on questions when the answers were staring her in the kisser.

  I shrugged, bones clicking together like pool balls at break. "Breathing optional has its advantages. Insomnia doesn't mean much when sleep's just another luxury I can't afford, like food or a working radiator."

  She sighed that sigh that was reserved just for me, like she was mentally counting the days until she could afford to hang her shingle at a real law office instead of playing nursemaid to the city's only walking skeleton detective.

  "Most of the living would consider never having to sleep the berries," she said, setting the folder on my desk with practiced precision.

  "The living get a lot of ideas about death," I replied, grinning my perpetual grin. "Most of 'em are phonier than a three-dollar bill. Can't offend a dead man, counselor. I'm past my expiration date."

  "Insufferable is what you are." But I caught the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. She'd sooner take the third rail than admit it, but she'd developed a tolerance for my grave humor. "The Parkerson file is gas house. Every 't' crossed and every 'i' dotted. Even those knuckle-draggers at the BCPD can't ignore this evidence."

  "They'll find a way," I said, flipping through her meticulous notes, her handwriting small and precise, with those strange half-elvish flourishes she couldn't quite shake. "Ignoring evidence is what the department does best, especially when it involves folks with sharp ears or stone blood."

  A shadow passed behind those amber eyes—quick, but I caught it. Being half-elf in Blackridge meant doors closed in your face, even the ones that claimed to be open to all. She knew what it meant to be on the bridge—not quite human enough for some, not quite elf enough for others.

  "The cabbage situation is getting dire," she said, changing the subject. "Landlord stopped by yesterday while you were out. Made some colorful remarks about renting to grave walkers."

  "What a coincidence," I replied, tapping my bony fingers on the desk in a rhythm that would have been nervous if I still had nerves. "I've got some colorful remarks about paying inflated rent for an office where the heat's deader than I am."

  "You don't feel cold," she pointed out.

  "It's the principle of the thing."

  She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed like she was holding in an argument she'd already had with me a hundred times. "Principles don't pay the bills, Sam. Neither does charm, which is aces for you." Her gaze drifted to the half-empty bottle on my desk. "Still keeping up that routine?"

  I glanced at the bourbon—expensive stuff by my standards. "The smell helps me think. One of the few pleasures left when you're nothing but bones and bad memories."

  "And what profound thoughts were you cooking up all night?" She arched an eyebrow, a habit she'd picked up from her long-tooth side.

  Before I could answer with something appropriately flip, the outer door opened again—hesitant, like someone testing ice they weren't sure would hold. Not the confident stride of a client who knew what they wanted, but the tentative steps of someone who'd gone to the ravine and back before darkening our doorstep.

  "Sounds like we've got company," I said, rising from my chair with a series of small pops and cracks that would have made a living man wince.

  Sylvia straightened, the professional mask sliding into place faster than a card sharp's favorite ace. "Should I—"

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "I'll handle it," I said, adjusting my hat to a slightly more respectable angle. "Better to get the shock over with up front than have them cashing in their chips when we're halfway through their story."

  The reception area was a shrine to Sylvia's organizational skills. Filing cabinets lined one wall, drawers labeled in her precise hand. Her desk faced the door, angled so she could eyeball anyone coming in before they got a good look at her pointed questions. In Blackridge, knowing who was crossing your threshold could mean the difference between making it home or taking a dirt nap.

  Standing just inside the doorway was a goblin woman, soaked to the bone and looking like she'd been rode hard and put away wet. Her green skin had the dull pallor of grief, and her eyes—yellow as a harvest moon and twice as haunted—were rimmed with the kind of red that comes from crying when you think nobody's listening. She clutched a worn handbag with fingers gone white from the effort, water dripping steadily from her threadbare coat onto our already stained carpet.

  "Welcome to the Dead End," I said, dialing back the cemetery voice to something less likely to send her running. "Let me guess—you've tried everywhere else."

  The goblin woman jumped like she'd been goosed, those moon-eyes widening at the sight of me. But she recovered faster than most. She had the weathered look of someone from the Hollows, where an animated skeleton in a rumpled suit was hardly the strangest thing you'd trip over before your morning joe.

  "Are you... the flatfoot called Faust?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady for someone facing a walking memento mori.

  "What's left of him," I confirmed, gesturing to one of the wooden chairs facing Sylvia's desk. "Plant yourself, Mrs...?"

  "Gimble," she said, perching on the edge of the chair like it might sprout teeth. "Dorna Gimble."

  Sylvia materialized at my side, one of her many notepads already in hand, pen poised. Always prepared, that girl—if the heavens fell tomorrow, she'd have already filed the paperwork in triplicate.

  "Would you care for some coffee, Mrs. Gimble?" Sylvia asked, her professional tone carrying just enough warmth to take the chill off. "You look like you've been dancing with the raindrops."

  Mrs. Gimble shook her head, water droplets flying from her long, pointed ears. "No time for that. Got the morning shift at Greta's Diner on Drowning Street. Counterman's a heel if I'm late, and jobs ain't easy to come by for my kind."

  I settled into the other visitor's chair, the wood protesting beneath my negligible weight. "Then let's not waste your time. Give us the lay."

  She opened her handbag with trembling fingers and removed a folded document, passing it across to me. "It's about my husband, Nix. He went to the ravine three days ago. Permanent-like."

  I unfolded the paper—a death certificate, stamped with the official seal of Saint Valentine's Hospital. Cause of death: exhaustion.

  "I'm sorry for your trouble," Sylvia said quietly, and I knew she meant it. One thing about Sylv—she never faked sympathy. Gave it sparingly, but genuine as a heart attack.

  "Exhaustion," I read aloud, looking up at Mrs. Gimble. The paper was damp around the edges where she'd been clutching it, like she was afraid it might disappear if she let go. "That's not something you see every day on these."

  "No," she agreed, a flicker of anger cutting through her grief like a switchblade through silk. "It ain't."

  "And you don't buy the official story," I said. Not a question.

  Mrs. Gimble's shoulders straightened, adding an inch to her diminutive frame. "My Nix worked at Harker Metalworks for fifteen years. Yes, it was hard labor, but he was strong as an ox. Goblins are tougher than we look." Her voice caught. "Then three weeks ago, he started coming home... seeing smoke."

  "How do you mean?" Sylvia prompted, her pen hovering over her pad like a hawk over a field mouse.

  "Hollow," Mrs. Gimble said, and the word hung between us like a bad omen. "Drawn thin. Like something was being drained out of him. He'd sit at our table and stare through me. Wouldn't eat. Barely spoke. The light behind his eyes got dimmer every day, like someone was turning down a gas lamp, bit by bit."

  I exchanged a glance with Sylvia. There was something here, something worth digging into despite the warning bells clanging in whatever passed for my instincts these days. Harker Industries wasn't an outfit you investigated lightly. They owned half the city outright and had the other half in their pocket, with enough juice to make problems disappear—problems like nosy detectives, living or otherwise.

  "Any changes at the factory?" I asked. "New big wheels, new machines, new procedures?"

  Mrs. Gimble nodded, twisting a simple copper band on her left finger. "They installed new equipment. Called it 'process enhancement.' Said it would 'streamline production.' After that, everyone started getting... ash blood."

  "Everyone?" Sylvia asked, her pen scratching quietly.

  "All the non-humans," Mrs. Gimble clarified, her mouth twisting bitterly. "The stone bloods, the goblins, the handful of fae. Not the naturals. Never the naturals."

  "And when he took the fall?" I kept my tone even, but I was already filing away details, connecting dots that didn't paint a pretty picture.

  "They buzzed from the factory. Said he collapsed at his workbench." Her hands twisted in her lap like she was trying to wring out the grief. "By the time I got to Saint Valentine's, he was already on the cooling board. The sawbones said his system just... gave out."

  "But you're wise to that," Sylvia said, glancing up from her notepad.

  "Dead certain." Mrs. Gimble's voice hardened like quick-setting cement. "There were others before Nix. Mostly goblins. A few stone bloods. All marked down as 'exhaustion' or 'natural causes' or convenient 'retirements.'" She looked from Sylvia to me, something desperate in her gaze. "I ain't had the education you veil walkers get. Can't read all them fancy medical mumbo-jumbo. But I know when something stinks worse than the Cinderpits on a hot day."

  I'd heard enough. "Mrs. Gimble, why darken our door? The coppers—"

  "The coppers!" She nearly spat the word, showing teeth sharp enough to open letters. "I tried them first. Some flatfoot tells me there's nothing hinky about a goblin working himself into a pine box down at the factories. Says we're 'known for poor self-regulation.' Didn't even pretend to write anything in his little book."

  Of course they wouldn't. BCPD had a special talent for looking the other way when non-humans were involved—unless they needed to fill their arrest quotas or justify a raid on Fairy Town.

  "What's your angle?" I asked, though I already had a pretty good idea.

  "Find out what really happened to my Nix," the goblin woman said, that flash of steel in her voice again. "And make sure it doesn't happen to nobody else."

  I leaned back, considering her. "Mrs. Gimble, I'll level with you. Cases involving Harker Industries tend to hit walls. Very high, very thick walls with nasty things on top. And our fees—"

  She reached into her handbag again and pulled out a small cloth sack. The distinctive clink as she set it on Sylvia's desk told me what was inside before she opened it. Gold. Not much, but real cabbage.

  "Everything I got," she said simply. "Our lettuce, my mother's wedding band, and a pocket watch Nix got for ten years at the factory." Her moon-eyes fixed on mine, or where mine used to be. "Will it buy enough of your time?"

  I looked at the modest pile of coins, then at Sylvia. She gave me the slightest of nods.

  "It'll do for openers," I said, rising to my feet and extending my bony hand. "Dead End Investigations is on the case, Mrs. Gimble."

  She took my hand without hesitation this time, her small green fingers disappearing in my skeletal grip. "You're abel, Mr. Faust. I can read it on what's left of your face."

  "Sam," I corrected. "Only the tax man and my landlord call me Mister."

  After she'd gone—hurrying through the rain toward a job she couldn't afford to lose—Sylvia turned to me, one elegant eyebrow raised in that way that always made me feel like I was back in the academy, about to be dressed down by the sergeant.

  "Harker Industries?" she said, gathering the gold coins into a neat stack. "We're really going to poke that hornets' nest with nothing but a death certificate that says 'exhaustion' and a handful of gold that wouldn't keep the lights on for a month?"

  I picked up my fedora from Sylvia's desk. "You heard the lady. Something's hollow about this business."

  "We're going to need more than that to go on," Sylvia pointed out, practical as the grave.

  I grinned—not that I had much choice in the matter these days. "That's why we're going to see a bone reader who knows his way around dead goblins."

  "The morgue," Sylvia sighed, reaching for her coat. "Of course. And here I thought we might have a daylight case for once."

  "In Blackridge?" I chuckled, fishing a fresh smoke from my silver case. "Honey, even the dead don't rest easy in this town. It's past my expiration date, and I still can't get a good day's sleep."

  As we stepped out into the rain, the smell of wet pavement and factory smoke wrapping around us like a shroud, I couldn't shake the feeling that Mrs. Gimble's case was going to open up something uglier than sin on Sunday. In my experience, cases involving the big wheels of Blackridge had a way of grinding up anyone small enough to get caught in their spokes.

  But that's why Dead End Investigations existed—for the little guys, the ones with nowhere else to turn. The ones the system was designed to overlook or swallow whole.

  Lucky for me, I'd already been swallowed once. By the grave, no less. Everything after that was just another day of reading cold.