death-diva

Dean was about to dismiss me with a quick nod, but my name caught his attention. __ey, you__e that Death Diva girl, right?____raid so.___uh._ He studied me a moment as he extracted a lighter and pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. I studied him back. Dean__ head bore the aftermath of what had to be the world__ worst hair transplant. Reddish brown crop rows marched back from a severe, slightly lopsided hairline. The whole mess had been meticulously blow-dried and sprayed in a swept-back style more appropriate to the 1980s.He tapped out a cigarette. __ou make money doing that?___hy, yes I do,_ I said. __hat__ kind of the point of it._ That__ the number-one question I get asked.__hat__ the weirdest thing you__e done, eh?_ The number-two question, right on schedule.

My name is Jane Delaney and I do things my paying customers can__ do, don__ want to do, don__ want to be seen doing, can__ bring themselves to do, and/or don__ want it to be known they__ paid someone to do. To dead people.