I chose a gray cashmere sweater, wide-legged black slacks, and matching black pumps. Just in case, I pulled out the rain jacket I hadn’t used in a year.
The woods outside had begun to lighten. I grabbed my keys, briefcase, and Creepy-Ted—to toss him in a dumpster somewhere—and stepped onto the porch.
A cool breeze scented with rain and early spring blossoms swept around me as I locked the deadbolts one by one with firm, deliberate clicks. I crossed the deck, eyes flicking to the tree line every few seconds.
Just in case.
The drive down the mountain was quick, the roads still damp but clear. Grayness clung to the sky like a heavy blanket, blocking out the rising sun and keeping in the cool air. Iturned onto Main Street where Donny’s Diner was already packed, the scent of bacon and coffee wafting through the cracked window. A trio of cowboys trotted past on horseback—probably five hours into their workday already.
That was Berry Springs. While the rest of the world raced into the future, Berry Springs stayed rooted in old-town living. And honestly? Why fix something that isn’t broken?
It was 7:37 a.m. by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the county morgue.
11
ROSE
With a coffee carrier in one hand and paper bag in the other, I carefully made my way up the sidewalk to a long, unassuming brick building that resembled a library more than a place that housed dozens of dead bodies. While most bushes were beginning to flower, the ones that lined this building were as dead as doornails. Steeling myself, I pressed the faded button on the intercom next to the thick metal door.
Nothing.
I pressed the button again, this time following it up with an impatient knock from my elbow. Finally, the door jerked open to a tangle of red curls and a string of curse words.
“Oh. Sorry. Dr. Floris, come on in. Thought you were Tabby-Talks-a-Lot.”
With hair as fiery as her attitude, Jessica Heathrow was the county’s medical examiner—equally known for her sharp instincts during an autopsy and her unmatched ability to out-cuss and out-drink every man in Berry Springs. Intimidating? Yes. Unworkable? Not at all. We’d figured each other out years ago.
Tabby-Talks-a-Lot was the affectionate nickname for Tabitha Raines, the town’s newest reporter with teased blonde hair, a voice like a foghorn, and—according to gossip—a pair of brass balls to match. She was relentless when chasing a story and, in Jessica’s words, the equivalent of a raccoon in the trash bin of justice.
There was only room for one alpha female in this building—and Jessica had claimed the title long ago.
We’d become unlikely friends after she rear-ended me on an icy morning months earlier. While we waited for the wreckers, freezing and frustrated, we discovered a mutual respect: a shared obsession with our jobs, and a fascination with the chaos of the human brain.
I raised one of the coffees I’d brought as a peace offering.
Jessica’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. She snatched the cup from my hand with a satisfied grunt, revealing a fresh collection of tattoos snaking up her forearm under her lab coat.
“White chocolate mocha, with extra sprinkles,” I said.
She sipped, smiled, then cocked a brow. “Hang on just a minute. Coffee means you stopped by with one,maybetwo, questions about something. White chocolate mocha means you need a favor. And sprinkles say you need it ASAP.”
“True. On all counts, but not from you. From Andrew.”
“Ah. Phew.”
Her shoulders relaxed and she took another sip. Being the only coroner in a county with as many meth labs as churches, Jessica was overworked. Not that she would ever admit to it.
“In that case, thanks for the coffee. Come. Andrew’s in the lab. You can leave your purse and bag there.” She led me through the front office, where the lights remained off todeter the prying media. “He’s been here since six, believe it or not.”
“You’re training him well.”
She snorted. “Threatening is probably more accurate.”
I sucked in a breath as Jessica pulled open the lab door.
I’d only been inside a morgue twice before—once for a college anatomy course, and once to identify a client who’d taken their own life, no next of kin. It was a moment I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy, and one I wished I’d never have to repeat.
My stomach rolled as the air hit me—formaldehyde, methanol, and decay coiling together into a scent you couldn’t un-smell, no matter how long you held your breath.
