— It's not such a bad property, — Julia insisted. — It's got an acre of land. It's close to the city. —

— And it's got a dead body in the backyard. That'll really help its resale value. —

Julia massaged her neck, which was suddenly knotted with tension. Vicky was right. Vicky was always right. Julia thought: I've poured my bank account into this house, and now I'm the proud owner of a cursed property. Through the window, she saw another newcomer arrive on the scene. It was an older woman with short gray hair, dressed in blue jeans and heavy work boots— not the sort of outfit one expected for such a grandmotherly type. Yet one more queer character wandering through her yard today. Who were these people, converging on the dead? Why did they choose such a profession, confronting every day what most people shuddered to even contemplate?

— Did you talk to Richard before you bought it? —

Julia went still. — No, I didn't talk to him. —

— Have you heard from him at all lately? — Vicky asked. The change in her voice— suddenly quiet, almost hesitant— made Julia at last turn to look at her sister.

— Why are you asking? — said Julia.

— You were married to him. Don't you call him every so often, just to ask if he's forwarding your mail or something? —

Julia sank into a chair at the table. — I don't call him. And he doesn't call me. —

For a moment Vicky said nothing, just sat in silence as Julia stoically stared down. — I'm sorry, — Vicky finally said. — I'm so sorry you're still hurting. —

Julia gave a laugh. — Yeah, well. I'm sorry, too. —

— It's been six months. I thought you'd be over him by now. You're bright, you're cute, you should be back in circulation. —