“What?” I sit up straight and look at my ticket even though I know the number by heart. I glance up at the blinking window in the distance and take off running like a prison escapee. I weave in and out of the crowd, duck and dodge and yell, “I’m here,” as I slide the ticket through the window and toward a hologram of… Judge Judy?
“Edith Randolph Chatsworth-Jones,” she begins. “You are here because your spirit has left your earthly body. Do you understand that you are dead?”
“Yes.” It can’t be Judge Judy, but it sure looks like her. “Where am I? How long have I been here?”
She looks over the top of her glasses at me. “God does not mark time in days and minutes.”
“It feels like an eternity!”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Death comes to all human beings and is not the end of your spiritual existence. God has a plan for all his children and has created a place for all in his kingdom. Loved ones who have passed await a joyous…” She continues on and on like this is a long-winded recording. “… but your destiny lies elsewhere—”
“Elsewhere? What are you—”
“I’m speaking!” She bangs her gavel like we’re on The People’s Court. “Elsewhere in the Progression of Redemption Corps.”
“The progression of what?”
“This is your final judgment.” Judy bangs her gavel again. “Pay up, Edith Randolph Chatsworth-Jones.”
Final judgment? That sounds ominous as hell. The hologram begins to fade and I call out, “You can’t mean hell. Judy, come back. I’m a good person!” Before I have time to further argue my case, I am pulled through a sudden crack in the mist. I’m terrified of being trapped in dark places or locked inside my own dark thoughts. The crack seals itself and I’m in a place filled with color. This can’t be hell, unless hell looks like Holland in April.
A platinum-blonde woman stands in a field of vibrant tulips. She is dressed in white and her eyes are clear turquoise. She glows from the inside out, but she doesn’t have wings.
“Am I in heaven?”
“No. You are in my office.”
“Office?” Rows of different-colored tulips stretch as far as the eye can see. This is crazy.
“I’m Ingrid, director of Southwest Thirty-One.”
I don’t have a clue what that means, but she’s obviously in charge, so I give her a pleasant smile. “It’s a pleasure, Ingrid. I’m Edie Chatsworth-Jones.”
She shakes her head. “Not any longer. There can be only one Edie Chatsworth-Jones, and she’s alive and well and living in Michigan.”
This is getting crazier. “I’m Edie and I’m right here in your office. Apparently in the Netherlands.”
She waves a hand and rows of flowers are replaced by a Times Square–size video screen. “What do you suppose happened to Brittany Lynn Snider after you took her portal?”
I’m too smart to fall into that trap and keep my mouth shut. On the screen, Hawthorne comes into focus. I recognize the garden lighting, and the lamps and urns along the terrace. The conservatory is lit up, which means my parents are dining at home. My heart squeezes and my eyes burn like I’m tearing up without producing actual tears. I never meant to disappoint or hurt my mother and father. I wish things could have been different.
The conservatory door opens and a woman steps out in a Givenchy sweater like the one I wore in Aspen last year. Her hair is big and bouncy like a rodeo queen’s, and as she moves into the light on the banister, she looks oddly familiar. Her face is… I gasp and point to the screen. “That’s me!”
“Well, you’re partly right. That’s Brittany Lynn Snider. When you stole her path to heaven, her spirit was transmigrated into the physical being of Edie Chatsworth-Jones.”
“What is this? A bad science-fiction movie?” I clutch my chest in horror. “What did she do to my hair?”
“Her hair.”
“And her makeup. She’s wearing—” I gasp. “Is that Oliver Hunt? What’s he doing—she’s talking to him. We hate each other. Make her stop!”
“She can live her life any way she chooses within the boundaries of her contract.”
Contract? “That isn’t her life. It’s my life and she can’t waltz into it and wear my clothes and shoes. She can’t drive my Bentley and live in my penthouse or have my dog. She’s an impostor!”
“You aren’t listening, and we have work to do.”
“What work?”