I stood and headed for the door. “I appreciate you taking the time to discuss the case with me.”
“Oh, and Georgiana,” Foley called.
I turned.
“If you learn anything new,” he said, “I expect you’ll be in touch.”
“I will,” I said.
And I meant it.
The more I uncovered about Holly and the secrecy tied to her adoption, the clearer it became that her murder may have hinged on something her adoptive mother had tried to keep buried.
But what?
The truth of Holly’s past had been guarded with intent, tucked deep in the shadows where someone believed it would never surface. I planned to find that person and force their secrets into the light.
5
The coroner’s office sat tucked behind the county building, a white structure with faded paint and a single palm tree leaning over the entrance. I pushed the door open and stepped into the familiar hallway, greeted by the muted thrum of heavy-metal music booming through a half-closed door ahead.
Silas Crowe never strayed from the genre of music he liked.
Some people found it jarring.
I found it comforting.
It meant he was here, moving through his familiar rhythm, settled in the strange peace he always found among the dead.
I stepped into the lab and saw Silas standing over a stainless-steel table, his loose, long hair pulled back, face mask looped around his neck. Today, he was dressed in his usual attire: cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a long white button-up shirt with blue and yellow striped fish and pineapples all over it. His surfboard was leaned against the far wall, waxed and ready for another playdate with the ocean.
He looked up at me and smiled. “Hey, Gigi. Just got off the phone with Foley. I figured you’d end up involved in this case.”
He lowered the volume of the music and motioned to the chair near his desk. “Take a seat, and I’ll walk you through what I know.”
I sat.
Silas reached for a file and slid it toward me.
“Holly died from a gunshot wound to the chest. The entry point sits just below the collarbone, straight through the soft tissue.”
“She was shot at close range,” I said.
“The shooter was less than a foot away when she was shot. The burn pattern around the wound shows powder tattooing. You don’t get that unless the muzzle sits right near the skin.” He tapped the folder with his finger. “The round traveled clean through. Small caliber. My guess is a .22 or .25. I won’t be certain until Ballistics finishes their report.”
“Were there any other marks on her body?”
He nodded. “Someone grabbed her so hard it left a bruise. The patterns line up with thumb pressure on the inside of her upper arm. One hand. Large grip strength. No distinct fingerprints though, which leads me to believe the killer wore gloves.”
“Large grip strength points to a man.”
“Or a strong larger woman.”
I spent the next few minutes studying the file. “Did you find any other bruising on her body?”
“Yeah, on her left cheek. The knuckles made a shallow arc here.” He traced a line along his own cheekbone. “You can tell from the bruising pattern. The bone took the initial blow.”
I swallowed hard, picturing the moment of impact in my mind. “Seems like she never had a chance to save herself. Were there any signs of defensive wounds?”
