Before You Knew My Name by Jacqueline Bublitz (most inspirational books of all time .TXT) 📗

her awkward meeting with Officer Jennings outside the precinct, she feels as if something has been extracted. Like a tongue curling against the hole where a tooth used to be, she casts about for what is left, and discovers, to her surprise, it is mostly sadness. She is grieving for the girl on the rocks as if she knew her, as if they were friends.

‘It’s so strange, Lennie. The way I can’t stop thinking about her. I thought maybe I was just having trouble processing what happened—it’s why I came to the meet-up tonight, like I might have PTSD or something. But it’s not that, or not only that, at least. I feel … connected to this girl. Deep in my bones. Is that weird?’

‘I don’t think it’s weird,’ Lennie answers without pause, her dark eyes glistening. ‘I’ve come to think that intensity, not time, is what connects us. And what could be more intense than being the one to find her? I’d say the weird part would be if you didn’t feel anything at all.’

They have been talking so long, the lights in the restaurant have dimmed, and chairs have been lifted onto tables. Ruby knows they will have to leave soon, and this new, precious connection will be severed. There is something she wants to know first, something to hold onto when she goes home alone.

‘Is that what happened to you, Lennie? Why you go to a PTSD meet-up, I mean? Because of all the things you’ve seen in your work?’

Lennie considers the question, weighs the intent as if holding it in her hands.

‘Ever notice how it’s only ever women in those boxes?’ she says, finally. ‘The ones that get sawn in half. For a time, it got too much. I saw too many dead girls coming through the door.

‘But Ruby’—Lennie reaches across the table, takes Ruby’s hand, squeezes tight—‘I expect just one would be enough to break your heart.’

The invitation comes through just after 2 a.m. Ruby is awake, going over her night as if untangling a necklace, carefully picking at the chain of events, when the notification dings on her phone.

Dear Ruby,

You are cordially invited to join Death Club at 11 a.m. this Sunday. We will convene at Nice Matin (see map—it’s closeto you!), where mimosas and in-depth discussions await. The founding members of the club look forward to seeing you there.

The short message finishes with a quote:

‘The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?’ Edgar Allan Poe

Though the phone number is unfamiliar, Ruby knows, without question, this is the work of Lennie Lau, the dark-haired magician from Brooklyn who puts women and girls back together again. She remembers how Lennie took her hand at the restaurant. What was it she had said? Something about too many dead girls coming through the door. To have met someone who understands this particular type of haunting, the way dead girls can follow you home—Ruby can hardly believe her luck.

And now her mind is racing ahead to Sunday, to this mysterious Death Club and what it might mean. Perhaps this is her chance to find what she’s been looking for. She knows she shouldn’t get her hopes up, not after the PTSD meet-up proved such an ill fit. But, then again, look what came out of that. A new friend, and an invitation. There can be no harm in seeing where this takes her.

Besides, it isn’t like she has anywhere else to be.

Me neither, I whisper. The sound of my voice prickles on Ruby’s skin, and I know this is not entirely the truth of it. I know that dead girls are not supposed to haunt the living. That there is a somewhere else I should be. I sense it sometimes, almost like those whispers from another room that Ruby strains to hear. Far away, but also near—I think there is a place that offers disappearing. No more waves crashing, tossing me about. Just calm.

But I no longer want to disappear. Not when it seems so many people have forgotten me. Not when nobody knows my name.

Maybe Death Club is my chance too, Ruby.

My chance to be remembered. To have people know that I was here.

Here. In New York City.

To think Ruby and I both thought this was the adventure. We really had no idea.

FOURTEEN

DEATH CLUB WAS FORMED AFTER LENNIE FELL, BRIEFLY, IN love with a man. Josh was a tall, dark and handsome journalist doing a feature on the mortuary for a popular magazine, and he was especially interested in Lennie’s reconstruction work. He followed her around on the job for the better part of a week, and there was something about the direct way he asked his questions that made Lennie’s heart bounce out of rhythm. She found herself noticing his ever-dilated pupils and the white moons of his fingernails and the flat of his front teeth, and the specificity of these observations confounded her. Josh was definitely not her type—her last lover had been a petite hula-hooper she met at a burlesque show in the East Village—but there was definitely something buzzing between them. Or so Lennie thought, until she realised what she was really attracted to: Josh’s intelligent curiosity, and his respect not just for his own work, but for her work, too. As they talked about their respective careers, discussing the way he told stories for a living, he suggested her job was to un-tell stories, wind her dead bodies back to an easier time, and perhaps that meant they were coming at the same thing, just from different locations. It was the most thoughtful description of her work Lennie had ever heard, and she knew she wanted to keep this man and his way with words in her life.

‘I’d hate to think the most interesting thing about a person, what they’re remembered for, is how they died,’ she said at