Levels of Wrong

He missed his wife terribly. Her touch, her smile, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. It almost made him regret killing her. Sometimes. She was a little less expressive when dead.

“That’s messed up.”

He glowered at his assistant. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “If you want my help, you get my opinion. Why would you have your own zombie wife here?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring the glass case that encased his ex. “Where else would I put her?”

“I’d kill her, for good, and bury her. This is just messed up.”

He frowned. “When is necromancy not considered messed up?”

She shrugged. “Never, I guess. But I think there are levels of it. And this is a higher one.”

Denying that was impossible. So he ignored it instead.

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