Heaven Sent

By Leigh Grayson

Angela Talbott is dead. And she’s just realized that heaven isn’t eternal bliss and golden halos and discussions about cream cheese—it’s work. Hard work. Angela has been dead for three days, and she’s already been given a job—solving her own murder, which is turning out to be tougher than she ever would have thought. Being dead makes her invisible to the living, but it sure doesn’t make her Sherlock Holmes. And the suspects are piling up—her boyfriend, her anal-retentive co-worker, a homeless panhandler. And her brother.

To make matters worse, there are two Hellions dogging her every move. These Hellions might not have horns and pitchforks, but they are big trouble. If Angela is killed by one of these two men, the afterlife is all over for her—and that’s exactly what they seem to be trying to do. Despite that, Angela finds herself inexplicably attracted to one of them: Alec, a man with a mysterious past who seems to know Angela better than she knows herself. But once Angela discovers that Alec may have been the one pulling the strings that led to her murder, all bets are off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leigh Grayson
• Release date: Oct 23, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465953070

Leigh Grayson

Leigh Grayson lives in Colorado with her family. She is hard at work on her next novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Let me tell you, heaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When I was alive, I thought heaven was nothing but lounging around on puffy clouds, dressed in sandals and glowing robes, sucking down nectar and ambrosia—whatever that is—all day. And everyone would have wings, just like the big fluffy ones the Victoria Secret models strut down the runway wearing. Oh, and golden halos—can’t forget those.

But heaven isn’t that way at all. Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice. I don’t ever feel hungry or thirsty. I don’t have a period anymore, and I don’t worry about whether my butt looks too wide, or whether I should buy some of those chicken-cutlet thingies to make my boobs look bigger. Those kinds of things just don’t matter anymore.

But heaven is work. Hard work. Angels—if that’s what you want to call us—don’t just sit around on their duffs all day—we have to earn our keep. Heaven is a big place, and just like anywhere else, it requires a lot of maintenance. Keeping the trains running on time, as my dad always used to say, is vital to any business. And that’s exactly what heaven is. There aren’t any paychecks on Fridays or sick-leave or health benefits, but it’s still a business.

There are millions of people on earth who need protection. Or sometimes, they just need a little nudge in the right direction. There are angels who inspire artists, and angels who deliver messages. And there are angels who solve the mysteries that the living can’t seem to, which is what my job ended up being.

After I died, I had to solve the mystery of my own murder. Kind of a crappy job, considering—but you have to learn to roll with the punches. That’s another tidbit of wisdom from my father, and it’s a good one.

CHAPTER TWO

When I was alive, my name was Angela Talbott. Although I’m dead now, I suppose it’s still my name. Things like an identity are still important, even in the afterlife. On the day I died, I was twenty-five years old, with dark hair, big brown eyes, and curves from head to toe. I’d always figured I was chubby, but men seem to appreciate my body, so I’d come to accept it. At least I’d managed to conquer my self-image problems while I was still breathing—which is better than never accomplishing anything during my lifetime, don’t you think?

I died on a Thursday in September. When I was alive, I was working as an executive assistant at a fairly large company. It doesn’t matter what the company actually does, so I won’t bore you with those details. My job mainly consisted of answering the phone, ordering lunches, picking up Starbucks, and looking pretty. It was somewhat depressing that after five years of college and a ton of student loan debt, I was stuck working as a desk monkey for a thankless boss who could care less that I’d majored in European literature or could speak fluent French. The only thing my pig-of-a-boss thought of when he looked at me was whether I could be convinced to give him a blow-job as he sat on his cushioned wheely chair. I know this, because he’d asked me for a hummer on my first day working for him. Twice.

I can remember that the day of my death was hot, miserably so. I had spent most of it sitting at my desk, alternating between my email and the internet, where I had been looking through pages of designer shoes I’d never be able to afford. When my phone rang, I would ignore it and let it go to voicemail. My boss had already left for the day, but I was chained to my cubicle just in case I was needed. Yeah, right. I was trying to avoid having to do anything. The moment the little hand on clock hit five, I was out the door.

I left my office and walked through the dim, echoing parking garage, my sexy spiked heels clicking loudly against the smooth cement. I was hungry, and planned to slop together a PB&J as soon as I got to my apartment—chunky peanut butter with extra grape jelly. And I had to pee. Badly. My cell phone rang as I hurried past the rows of parked cars—it was my brother, Jack. I didn’t pick up. I planned on calling him back once I had the chance to relieve myself and stuff some sustenance down my throat—in that order.

That’s it. That’s all I can remember of the moments before my death. It’s like someone crawled in to my head and erased everything else. Dumped it all in to the recycle bin and permanently deleted it.

After that—I don’t know what happened. One minute I was alive, the next I wasn’t. I looked around, and I wasn’t in the parking garage anymore. I was standing in a field, green and gold and stretching as far as I could see. The spiked tips of my killer heels were sinking in to the soft ground. The sky above my head was bright blue and cloudless, perfect. I’d never been in the field before, I was sure of it. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been in the great outdoors—I’m more of a city girl. Plus, I would have remembered a place as beautiful as this.

Hello, Angela.

I jumped a little, and whirled around. A man was standing beside me, his hands clasped behind his back in a meditative pose. He was wearing ripped blue jeans and some kind of top that was more like a—a tunic, not that I’d ever had the opportunity to use that word before. The guy’s face was calm and serene, and familiar—his name seemed to be right on the tip of my tongue, dancing just out of reach. His lips were curved in a kind smile.

Who are you? Where am I? I reached for my purse, wanting to get my hands on the can of pepper spray I always carried in case this guy was a raving lunatic. But my purse was gone.

You can call me John. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and paused to push them back up his nose. He had an English accent, as mellow as the field around us. And this— he waved his arm around in a wide, encompassing gesture. —this is the afterlife.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Charming. What a lady you are.

Oh, pardon me. I meant to say, what could you possibly be talking about— my words dripped with sarcasm, —uh, sir?

John sighed.

I always hate having to be the bearer of bad news. He shook his head. His hair, which was cut in to a shaggy brown mop that grazed his shoulders, tossed around in a wave. How did I get stuck with this job?

I’m sorry, uh, John—but I still don’t know what you’re talking about.

John fixed me with a stare, and I could see that his eyes were brown, a light brown, almost an amber color. But they weren’t just brown—they were sad.

You’re dead, Angela. Your body died three days ago, and your soul came here. He sighed again, a deep gusty one that seemed to come up from the tips of his toes. Welcome to heaven.

CHAPTER THREE

After John told me I was dead, I didn’t cry, or scream, or pull my hair out or anything like that. Believe it or not, the first thing I did was laugh. I was laughing so hard, the muscles in my stomach were aching and tears were running down my cheeks.

What’s so funny? John smiled at me, a trifle uncertainly.

This dream— I managed to gasp between my laughs. —I have had some weird dreams, but this one takes the cake.

This isn’t a dream.

I pinched my cheek.

It sure feels real.

This is real.

I pinched myself again, probably breaking capillaries under the skin and screwing up my complexion for a few days.

Quit pinching yourself. You’re not dreaming.

Sure, sure. I swiped at the tears still on my cheeks with the back of my hand and automatically checked for smeared eyeliner. I was good.

John rubbed his forehead as if a headache had sprung up there.

No one ever wants to believe me, he muttered to himself. I tell them again and again, we’ve got to come up with a better system—

So, John. I smiled at him, a big, toothy grin. If that really is your name. He rolled his eyes. This is heaven, huh? I always thought it would be up in the sky somewhere, and I would get a set of rainbow wings, or something. I leaned forward and poked him in the chest, hard. Say, if I’m dead, then you’re dead too. And where’s your wings? And your little golden halo?

It doesn’t work that way— he said lamely, trailing off in to silence.

I laughed again.

It’s amazing, the crap a person’s mind can come up with, isn’t it? I glanced down at my watch. It had kept on ticking, even though I had apparently not. Look, it’s been fun. But I’ve gotta wake up now. Actually, I don’t even remember falling asleep—

So you need proof?

Proof of what?

That you’re really dead.

Uh, sure. I looked at the ground around my feet for my missing purse. But first can you help me find my—

John didn’t wait to hear what I had to say. He suddenly grabbed my wrist, circling his fingers around my bones like a bracelet. Then I felt a surge of power tingle up my arm. Once, when I was kid, I had uncurled a paper clip and jammed it in to a light socket. God, I was a stupid kid. Stupid and curious. The jolt that John sent up my arm was just like that shock, only now it was painless. I squeezed my eyes shut and cringed.

When I opened my eyes again, I was at a funeral.

CHAPTER FOUR

I was standing in the center of a huge crowd of people. It was eerily silent, and most of the heads were bowed. I saw tears falling from more than one face like silver rain. Everyone was dressed in black. In the distance, I could hear the rise and fall of a familiar voice.

I looked around, but John had disappeared.

What a bizarre dream. I hoped I would wake up before it became a nightmare.

I couldn’t see anything from where I was standing—I’m not very tall—so I began slipping through the crowd, carefully maneuvering so I wouldn’t bump in to anyone. I recognized many of the faces I passed—there were family members I hadn’t seen in years, and students from high school that I hadn’t spoken with since graduation. I saw dozens of my co-workers and even my boyfriend, his head bowed, but his eyes dry.

No one even seemed to notice me as I crept by, but they all seemed so consumed with their grief, so I didn’t wonder at it. I would have to stop and catch up with everyone after the funeral service was over.

I skirted around the edge of the crowd—it was a big one. I was impressed at the turn out. Whoever died had been popular. The lawn beneath my shoes was green and damp, and the sky up above was dark with fat, threatening clouds. I hoped everyone had brought an umbrella, because it was going to pour.

The people were packed together like sardines, so it took me a few minutes to make my way through the crowd. And just when I had made it to the center of the gathering, my feet tangled together and I tripped. I’ve never been the most graceful of people—my mom always said that if there were something fragile around, I would be sure to break it. Needless to say, my landing wasn’t the best. I flopped down on to my stomach, sliding across the damp grass until I was just a few feet away from the rectangular hole dug in to the earth. Next to the grave sat a coffin, pristine white and covered in fragrant purple lilacs—my favorite flower.

I slowly looked up from the ground, my face flaming in humiliation. I expected every set of eyes in the crowd to be fixed on me, horrified and accusing. But no one was even looking at me. I was relieved, but confused. Why hadn’t anyone noticed me sprawled out on the ground like an idiot?

It was as if I were invisible.

I pushed myself up to a kneeling position, dusting the loose dirt from my elbows. I only looked up when I heard a voice begin to speak, a voice I’d known all of my life.

I want to thank you all for coming today. It was Jessie, my younger sister, standing behind a podium at the center of the crowd. She was dressed in a smart black suit that I’d never seen, and her dark hair had been upswept in to a neat bun on the back of her neck. She looked severe, but beautiful. It gives my family strength to know that you are all here for us during our time of need.

I slowly glanced around. I noticed my parents standing beside the podium, their hands linked together. My mother was hunched over, sobbing in to tissue. My father—who I’d never seen cry—was standing beside her, his face set like a stone, but tears were oozing from the corners of his eyes in a slow leak. And next to my parents stood Jack, my younger brother. He wasn’t crying, but he did look like he was going to throw up.

I can remember when Angela and I were kids. We used to fight over the dumbest things. My sister’s voice cracked, and I could hear someone in the crowd weeping openly. Once, she wore a pair of my jeans without asking me first. So to get her back, I hid all of her CDs. So she got in to my make-up, and scraped out all the eye-shadows and dumped my perfumes down the sink.

I slowly stood up. For the first time, I noticed the blown-up picture beside the coffin, propped up on a tall easel. It was a photo of me, taken during Christmas the year before. We’d all been in the kitchen, helping Mom bake cookies, and someone had snapped a photo. I was laughing, and there was smudge of flour on my cheek.

I stumbled back a step, suddenly feeling dizzy and weak.

I pinched my cheek again, as hard as I could. Nothing.

You know, I would let Angela have all of it—my jeans, my make-up, everything—if I could have her back with us. Jessie’s voice stuttered with tears. I don’t know how—how any of us are going to go on without her here.

Dead. I was dead. And all of my family and friends were here to see my body buried six feet under.

I looked down. I was still dressed in the frilly eggshell blouse I’d worn to work, and as I watched, blood bloomed through the fabric like flowers unfurling in the morning sun.

I screamed, but no one turned to look at me.

They couldn’t hear me.

My legs were like wet noodles, and I pitched forward on them, falling back to the ground I’d just climbed up from. I blacked out, and I didn’t wake up for a long, long time.

CHAPTER FIVE

When I opened my eyes again, the crowd had dispersed. The only thing they’d left behind were the trampled grass and a few crumpled tissues. The entire cemetery was silent and brooding.

I pulled myself up in to a sitting position.

I wasn’t alone.

John was there, sitting at the edge of the open grave, his legs swinging back and forth freely. His hands were clasped together on his lap, and one corner of his mouth was quirked up in a strange smile.

I told you so, he said.

All right, all right. I rubbed my forehead gently. Strangely, I didn’t feel shocked or disbelieving anymore—all I really felt was a sad resignation. Something inside of me—some deep, instinctive voice—told me it was all true. So I’m dead. I believe you. You don’t have to gloat about it.

I scooted over to the open grave and dangled my legs over the edge, mimicking John. My coffin had been lowered in to the bottom of the hole, where it gleamed like the moon against the moist dirt. I looked down at it sadly.

John, do you… I looked up at him, my face troubled. Do you know how I died?

John looked vaguely uncomfortable.

I really don’t—

Did I get hit by a car? Did I die from some disease? John’s lips were pressed together so tightly they had all but disappeared in to a white line. I don’t remember how it happened. Was I— I swallowed thickly. Was I murdered?

John’s face blanched white with some emotion that I couldn’t identify—later, I realized it was fear. But not just something as simple as fear—it was much deeper and more troubling than that. It was terror.

Yes, he said miserably. You were murdered. It was pretty bad.

Who did it?

That’s something you’ll have to find out on your own. Sorry.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Something flashed through my mind, some memory clouded with shadow. I could see myself running, screaming—and then it was gone. My mind was a blank. It was a terrible feeling.

Okay. Figure it out on my own. Got it.

We sat together in silence for a while. I was wondering about my death, and John—well, I don’t know what he was thinking about.

After a few minutes, a man walked across the cemetery and stopped at my grave, a shovel in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette tucked in to the corner of his mouth. He stabbed the shovel in to the mountain of dark, rich earth beside my open grave and tossed it in to the hole. The dirt hit the white wood of my coffin with a wet, sickening sound.

I stood up and backed away from the grave. I couldn’t just sit there and watch some random dude bury my body six feet under. I’d probably pass out again.

So, what now?

John’s face brightened at the change in subject.

There’s a lot you need to know. He stood up, his knees popping. There’s a lot to learn. We’d better get to it.

Then he reached out and grabbed my wrist, sending that jolt of painless lightening up my arm once more.

CHAPTER SIX

Warn me before you do that again, would you? I stumbled a little, my legs trembling. Being teleported around by some dead guy was twisting my stomach in to sick little knots.

Rookie, John muttered.

I looked around. We were in my parent’s house, in the living room. My parents were both there. My mother was sitting at one end of the sofa, her legs cross primly at