After My Murder I Returned

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The first thing Nathan Reed noticed was that he wasn't dead

No, scratch that. The first thing was the air. Cold. Clean. Lemon Pledge and the faint mildew from the window AC unit in his old Georgetown apartment. Not blood. Not exhaust from a parking garage. Not the smell of Adonis Daniels’s cologne mixed with his own blood.

He gasped — like, actually gasped, ugly and loud — and rolled onto his side. His cheek hit wool. The Persian rug. The one Sophia Reed bought him when he graduated, the one that “smelled like divorce” according to Melanie Rivers, the one he’d thrown out eight years from now. Or eight years ago.

“Shit,” he croaked. His voice was wrecked. “Shit, uh, shit.”

He pushed himself up. The room swam. Same desk. Same laptop. Same cracked iPhone 12 on the nightstand instead of the encrypted Starkphone he’d been using when he died.

Died.

Right. That.

He yanked his shirt up, expecting... God, he didn’t know. A scar? Stitches? His insides on his outside? But there was nothing. Just skin. Tan from a summer he hadn’t lived yet. The only mark was the thin white line on his left palm from when he was twelve and fell off Damien’s boat on the Chesapeake.

“Okay,” he said out loud. “Okay, um, okay. This is... this is not happening.”

Except his phone buzzed. And the lock screen said:

9:02 AM

Monday, October 2nd

Nathan’s stomach dropped clean through the floor.

October 2nd.

Two weeks. He had two weeks before the Reed Foundation gala. Two weeks before he met Melanie Rivers at the charity bar, spilled Cabernet on her borrowed red dress, and spent the next decade lighting himself on fire to keep her warm.

Two weeks before he started dying.

Another buzz. Calendar alert:

9:00 AM — Call with Damien Reed

Q3 Trust Review

Notes: DO NOT MISS. He means it this time.

He’d typed that note himself. In the other life. After he missed the call, screamed at Damien for not funding Melanie’s “boutique,” and didn’t speak to him for three years. Three years Damien didn’t have, because the cancer was already there, quiet, eating him from the inside while Nathan was busy buying love.

The phone started ringing. Damien Reed Mobile.

“Uh, uh, no,” Nathan muttered. “No, no, you have to — you have to answer, you idiot.”

He swiped. Fumbled. Almost declined.

“...Dad?”

His voice cracked. He sounded fourteen. He sounded like the kid who fell off the boat and Damien had to jump in after.

A beat. Then that voice. Gravel and DC marble. “Nathan. You’re late.”

Not where have you been. Not I thought you were dead. Just You’re late. Like Nathan was eight and missed curfew, not thirty-four and a ghost.

“Yeah, I, um...” Nathan swallowed. “I know. I’m sorry. I, like, I overslept.”

Damien huffed. That was his laugh. “Overslept. Right. Your mother said you’d say that. She also said you’d be hungover. Are you hungover, Nathan?”

“No. No, I’m not — I’m not hungover, I just...” I just got murdered by my girlfriend and her personal trainer. “I just lost track of time.”

“Uh-huh.” Papers shuffled. Nathan could see him: home office, back to the Potomac windows, reading glasses low on his nose, that Montblanc pen from ’89. “While you’ve been losing track of time, NexPay sent the revised term sheet. Again. They want an answer.”

NexPay.

Nathan’s vision actually whited out for a second. He stumbled to his desk. Laptop open. Email. Top line:

From: Elena Torres - NexPay

Subject: Series A Term Sheet - Final Follow Up

Attached: NexPay_SeriesA_TermSheet_FINAL_v3.p*f

2M for 18%.

The deal he walked away from. The deal he left on read to put 2M down on a Dupont penthouse in Melanie’s name. “For tax reasons, babe.” The deal that IPO’d at 47 billion. The deal that would’ve made him 8.46 billion instead of a body in a parking garage.

“Nathan? You still there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Sorry.” He clicked the P*F. Hands shaking so bad he had to use two fingers. “I’m, uh, I’m looking at it right now.”

“Good. Because I’m not holding your hand on this one. You want a seat at the table, this is it. But if you’re gonna flake to chase some...” Damien paused. Nathan heard him choose the word. “...*distraction*, tell me now and I’ll kill it myself.”

Distraction. He meant Melanie. Didn’t even know her name yet. Not in this timeline. But Damien always knew.

“I’m not,” Nathan said, too fast. “I’m not gonna flake. I want this. I, like, I really want this, Dad.”

A long pause. “...You okay, kid?”

Kid. Damien hadn’t called him that since Grandpa Reed’s funeral.

Nathan pressed his palm to his eye. “Yeah. I’m — I’m good. I just, uh, I had a weird dream. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Well, wake up. Board meets Thursday. I need your signature by Wednesday EOD if we’re in. If we’re out, I need to know so I can call Torres before she gives it to Caldwell.”

Michael Caldwell. The guy who took the deal in the other life. The guy who became Virginia’s youngest billionaire while Nathan became a headline: Local Heir Found Dead, Mugging Suspected.

“We’re in,” Nathan said. “We’re, um, we’re definitely in. I’ll sign today.”

“...Today?” Suspicion. “You haven’t even read—”

“I read it. I, like, I read it last night. I’ve been thinking. A lot.” For ten years. “It’s the right move.”

Rustle of paper. Then, quieter: “Okay. Okay, good. Don’t make me regret this, Nathan.”

“I won’t,” Nathan said, and his voice broke. “I swear I won’t, Dad.”

“...Alright. Get some coffee. You sound like hell.”

“Yeah. Uh, Dad?”

“What.”

Nathan closed his eyes. He could still hear Adonis Daniels saying “keep him still” in that parking garage. “Nothing. Just... thanks. For calling.”

Click.

Nathan dropped the phone. Put his head in his hands.

Fourteen days.

He signed the NexPay term sheet at 9:17 AM. Hands still shaking. Nathan Reed. The letters looked like a child’s.

At 9:20, he opened his contacts. Scrolled to J.

Jonah Carter

Last call in the other life: eight years ago. u up? need to talk. Nathan left it on read. Jonah died at 41, liver failure, after a decade of being COO and Nathan’s emergency contact and his only friend.

He typed: You free for lunch? My treat. Been an ass. Want to fix it.

Sent.

Three dots. Then:

Jonah Carter: dude it’s 9am

Jonah Carter: did damien cut u off??

Jonah Carter: fine. 12:30. Mabel’s. but if this is about money im leaving

Nathan laughed. It sounded like a sob. “Thanks, Jo,” he said to the empty room. “Like, seriously. Thanks.”

He showered. Hot water. Too hot. He needed to feel it. Got dressed. Not the designer crap he used to wear for Melanie. The charcoal Canali. Damien’s gift. “Every Reed man should own one suit that doesn’t scream ‘trying too hard.’”

He looked like his father.

He looked like someone who hadn’t died yet.

At 12:25, he walked into Mabel’s. The “bad burger” place. Jonah was there. Backwards Nats cap, Georgetown Law hoodie, textbook open but he was on his phone. Twenty-three. No crow’s feet. No decade of stress. Just Jonah.

Jonah looked up. Frowned. “Dude. Why do you, like, why do you look like someone told you your dog died?”

Nathan slid into the booth. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jonah said, slow. “You’re wearing your dad suit. Is Damien — is he okay? Did something happen?”

“No. He’s fine. I just...” Nathan picked up a menu. Put it down. “I talked to him. This morning.”

“And?” Jonah was watching him like he was a bomb. “Because last time you two talked, you ghosted me for a week. Said ‘family is trash’ and went dark.”

Nathan flinched. “Yeah. About that. I’m, uh... I’m sorry. For being an ass. For all of it. The stuff I’ve done and the stuff I’m probably gonna do if you don’t, like, stop me.”

Jonah blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Nathan looked at his hands. “If I ever start dating someone and you think she’s bad news... I need you to tell me. And then I need you to not let me slam the door. Okay? Even if I’m a dick. Especially if I’m a dick.”

Jonah was quiet for a long time. Then: “...Nate. Who is she?”

“No one. Yet.” Nathan looked out the window. “But there’s gonna be someone. And she’s gonna be really good at looking like the right thing. And I’m gonna be really good at being stupid.”

“Okay,” Jonah said. “You’re, like, you’re freaking me out. But okay. Yeah. I can be your common sense.”

“Thanks,” Nathan said. “My, uh, my CFO of Not Dying.”

Jonah snorted. “Dude, I’m in Law. I don’t even know what EBITDA is.”

“You will,” Nathan said. “Trust me.”

Outside, DC was normal. Sunny. Interns. Traffic.

Nathan Reed was alive. Damien Reed was alive. Jonah Carter was alive.

Melanie Rivers was out there. Adonis Daniels was out there. Douglas Rivers was out there, probably already planning how to spend Nathan’s trust.

But that was later.

Right now, Nathan had a signed term sheet. A dad who didn’t hate him yet. And a best friend who hadn’t buried him yet.

It was a start.

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