It wasn’t fair, he thought peevishly. “Who said life was fair?” his father had said to him a hundred times. He had said the same himself to his own daughter. (“It’s not fair, Daddy.”) Parents were miserable buggers. It should be fair. It should be paradise. Death, Jackson noticed, had made him crabbed. He shouldn’t be here, he should be with Niamh—wherever that was—the idyllic place where all the dead girls walked, risen up and honored. Fuck. His head really hurt. Not fair.
