Then the last one shifted between my fingers, reminding me of why I was here.
A ballerina, awkward in stature, soft in nature, and a smile not yet grown into.
A tremor overtook my body, my limbs becoming cold. The adrenaline was wearing off, fully actualizing my predicament. I dug through the folders.
Madeline. Dolores. Adelaide. Mary. Margret. Anne. Mary-Anne Margret.
Then—Petronille.
The pads of my fingers left small smears on the folder as I held it, my name written across the stiff pulp. It would almost make me feel better if this were a folder detailing my death, rather than my life.
The folder was spilling, the papers within thick and numerous. A few photos had slipped out when I disturbed it. I dug into the drawer. Not one must escape.
Then, echoes of fine shoes in the hallway, each slap of a sole traveling off the concrete walls like gunshots—and I was the rabbit in the way.
I shoved the drawer closed, gathering the file to my chest and tucking myself under the desk, pressing against the wood.
“Seems the janitorial staff left it open. I’ll have to speak with them about closing the doors.” A familiar accent.
“Is the coroner’s office always this indisposed?” Mr. Hunt’s gruff voice accompanied the scuffling of shoes.
“I couldn’t say, I haven’t seen him much at all, never mind in his office.”
Shoes dragged along the cold floor, a pair coming into view next to the office chair.
I pressed my hand over my mouth and nose, taking careful inventory of each breath going in and out, slow and silent.
“He only really comes by every week, less so now, since I assume he has more important things to do for the upcoming reelection,” Konstantin said, then laughed. “I suppose there isn’t too much competition for his spot. Those who’ve stepped up in the past dropped out pretty early on.”
“It’s a hard job that not many men are cut out for,” Hunt grumbled, leaning over the desk, the sliding of papers hissing against the wood. “I appreciate you letting me take a look. Did he have any logs? Visitation and employees?”
“I do, but you will have to get a warrant. It’s policy, apologies.” Nervous laughter from the young mortician. “The living as well as the dead are accounted for in a place like this.” A crude attempt at a joke.
There was a contemplative silence from the commissioner, then shifting weight on his feet. I could see his shoes, smell the leather, they were so close.
“Well, is there anything missing lately? Any odd behavior you’d want the police to know about?” Mr. Hunt asked.
“Missing? No, nothing is missing. Not anything out of the ordinary, of course. Well, what I mean is that sometimes thebodieshave missing things—but they come that way.” The mortician stumbled on his words, a nervous chatter not unlike a bickering bird.
“Well, you know who to call if you do think of something,” Mr. Hunt said, stepping away from the desk.
I let out a breath all the way. I was safe, I just had to wait a bit for them to leave.
Then, he stopped.
I didn’t need my hand to muffle my breathing; I held it.
His hand reached down, I could see it by the drawer. The key was still in it.
No!
He hooked his finger under the handle, sliding it open. There was a pause, then a breathy laugh. He lifted his hand, rustling in his coat before his hand reappeared with a handkerchief, reaching for something in the desk.
“Ah!”
I nearly hit my head on the desk the way I jumped at the mortician’s sudden exclamation.
“His secretary—shemay know more about the coroner’s travels and schedule, if you are concerned about his whereabouts and safety. Here, let me write you her address.”
