THIS JOURNAL BELONGS TO COOKIE KOWALSKI

Dear Journal,

 I know it’s been several years since I wrote, but I now know things I never dreamed were possible. Never in a million years. And I felt I should write them down so I never forget. Alzheimer is a real possibility. And today I learned not to take my time on earth for granted. Or my daughter, for that matter. Even though I thought divorce was the most painful thing I’d ever go through, I now realize that my life hadn’t really begun until after. It all started when I moved into a new apartment building right after the papers were signed almost three years ago. I met a young woman that day who would change my life forever. Things have been going at the speed of light since.

   One thing you should know about Charley before I go further is the fact that she’s the grim reaper. Yep. The real deal. She is also a portal to heaven, but her main job, besides being a sought-after PI here in Albuquerque, is to help those departed who are stuck, for lack of a better phrase, on earth, hoping to finish whatever it is anchoring them here. Once that is taken care of, they can cross through her to get to the other side. She’s a portal, an immaculate being sent from the heavens to help the lost. At least that’s the way I see it. But her job gets her into more hot water than farm raised eggs on Easter Sunday.

   We’d been doing pretty well, going about our daily lives, solving crimes and finding bad guys and lost dogs—I’m her assistant, by the way—when another piece was thrown into the puzzle. A piece that goes by the name of Reyes Alexander Farrow. He is the creamy center of Charley’s dreams and I can tell how much she cares about him no matter that he is dark and dangerous and one step away from being attacked by yours truly. I know he’s with my best friend, but I’m not ashamed. You wouldn’t be either if you saw him. I only have so much self-restraint and it’s waning fast.

  Anyway, that’s not the problem. None of that is the problem. The problem is Charley herself. I can’t tell if she gets into trouble the same way an accident-prone person trips or breaks something. I mean, is it like a disability? Or is trouble just drawn to her like a moth to a flame?

  Either way, Amber and I are pulled into these dangerous situations on a rather frequent basis, and yet Charley is always there, risking her life for us. And her dignity. There was this one time a homeless guy pulled a rusty knife on us and wanted to lick peanut butter off my cleavage, and Charley was right there, wrestling with him as he tried to smear peanut butter on me. Those types of things happen a lot around her. And that’s what I mean. She is such a magnet for the bizarre and unexplained. Maybe it’s because she herself is impossible to explain. To understand completely.

   Since meeting Charley Davidson, life has been one bizarre experience after another, many of them near-death, and I sometimes feel like I might be better off NOT knowing what I know now. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for all the coffee in the world. A cream puff from France might do it. Other than that, no way. I’ll keep my life just as it is.

Note:  This journal entry was first post on the Darynda Jones blog tour at Book Nympho!  The Book Nympho is an excellent site! Check it out!