“They never expected her to live,” I say casually, shrugging as if the point is moot. And it is. It’s a way of life in the families and the clan. It’s sad, but there’s no use in being upset. “They put it inside her with the intention of killing her later. It’s common for bodies they want to get rid of.”
Bruno was known for doing it to his old playthings. My fingers urge to remove the sheet, and see who lay beneath it. Would it be one of the girls from the club, one that I stitched up?
My stomach rolls. Damn.Did I do this?Condemn someone to death for trying to appease my self-induced guilt?
I shake myself.No.Roman did. And Maeve was thinking of marrying me off to that man?
Not happening.
“You sure know a lot about it,” Franklin muses, brown eyes piercing.
One of the women, Charlotte, snorts. Her thick blonde braid is always so perfect, so opposite of my wild red-brown locks. “Duh, of course. It’s no secret that her father was inthatworld.”
Glaring over at her, I say, “Allegedly. He was never convicted.”
It was a poorly held secret in Boston. Ferguson O’Brien was known for his shady dealings. He was never convicted though, even if the papers loved to speculate about him.
The women snicker together and my cheeks heat. My sisters were never the butt of jokes, but I was. I had no way of defending myself—too thin, too sickly.
I had to just take the bullies' abuse. Unless someone interfered. Usually, it was Hayes. Another reason for my superficial, highly laughable crush. He always defended me to those who tried to pick on me.
“Right.” She nods, as if we’ve shared a secret. “Howareyour sisters?”
My fists clench. My sisters, both in the criminal underworld, were a low blow.
I could fight with my sisters, curse them out, but no one else could.
“Charlotte,” Dillon interrupts, pulling the sheet back as rage hisses in my gut, a snake wanting to bite. I have to gulp down air to stop from doing something stupid with a scalpel. “Would you do the honor of grabbing us masks?”
Seeing as how Boston Mass General is a teaching hospital, we know we’re to inspect and learn. Already, I can see my fellow medical students wavering, pale faces flushing green with nausea.
Dillon knows it too. He hands me a pair of pliers, and gestures to the body. “You’ll be my hands today.”
Like I am every day.I can’t tell if it’s favoritism, or because I’m the only one that doesn’t get squeamish over dead bodies. Either way, I need good karma. I’m so close to finishing, with the board exam right around the corner. Just after my first year of my residency, I can take my final exam and truly be a doctor. The buzz of excitement—of finally beingdone—heats my palms.
Grabbing the precut flaps of skin, I pull the chest cavity open, the peeling flesh making a wet suction noise. Franklin looks away, gagging and I know he’s two seconds from running to the trash.
“See? There.” Dillon points to the cavity, where remains of a plastic bag sit. The coroner must have known we’d be looking at this body, and left the source so we could see it firsthand. “A small baggie. There’s still white residue.”
Leaning back, I look into the woman’s peaceful face, hands slightly shaking. It’s lined with wrinkles and track marks, her dark hair thin. I can see the healing marks of a bruise around herleft eye, another one around her temple. She’d be beaten, that’s obvious. Whoever owned her left their calling card all over her body.
There’s a small part of me that knows this should upset me. That I should be like my colleagues, hunting for a trash can, feeling sadness over a life lost. It’s horrible to see someone dead and be picking them apart for science.
But I don’t.They didn’t have my father.Any trace of compassion for the dead, or dying was wiped clean with hislessons.
“Shit!”
All five of us turn, catching my sister Sloane with adorable pregnant belly, standing in the doorway. Mouth open, her flaming red hair is bright in the stark, white cold morgue.What the hell is she doing down here?
Releasing the corpse’s skin, I peel my gloves off, rushing to her side. I don’t bother looking at anyone else. “What are you doing here?”
My little sister doesn’t take her eyes off the dead body. I’m not sure how she’d handle seeing a corpse; the Sloane I grew up with didn’t like anything gross, and was kept out of the family business. Now that she was a wife to the De Luca Capo, did her tolerance change? Did sheseethings?
Snapping my fingers, I tug her to the elevators, and make her look at me. “Hey, are you okay?”
Sloane’s mouth fails for a minute before she blinks. Even five months pregnant, she’s still beautiful, glowing from the inside out. Her signature ruby lips are freshly glossed, and her red nails painted. The green sweater dress is comfortable, fashionable, and the heels are high, just the way she likes it.
In comparison, I’m in drab blue scrubs and a pair of white sneakers.Not very cute.
