“Surprisingly, my subconscious doesn’t have a skip button.”
“Rude.” She moves past me to the coffee maker. Stops. Stares at the ring. “Is that?—”
“In a Ziploc bag. Yeah.” I press my palms against my eyes. “Any forensics course will tell you biological evidence needs paper bags. Needs to breathe. Hair degrades in plastic. DNA breaks down. I’m literally watching it happen and I can’t?—”
“Hey.” Her hand finds my wrist. Pulls my hands down from my face. “Breathe.”
“I’m a paralegal. I know chain of custody. I’ve logged evidence on dozens of cases and I’m?—”
“Making coffee,” she finishes firmly. Takes over before I can drop the pot. Her hands are steadier than mine. Barely. “Because falling apart before caffeine is just poor life choices.”
She pulls out our icon mugs. Ron Swanson for me. Leslie Knope for her.
I watch her make mine first. Honey and creamer. The exact amount she’s been making for seven years. Her hand shakes when she pours. But she doesn’t spill a drop.
“You’re using the emergency Knope mug,” I observe.
“The regular one is dirty and I’m not washing dishes while investigating a murder.” She hands me Ron Swanson filled to the brim. “Even Leslie Knope would understand that prioritization.”
I take it. The warmth grounds me slightly. “Your hands are shaking.”
“Yeah, well, your hands aren’t exactly steady either.” She makes her own. Three spoons of sugar, no cream. “We’re both a mess. It’s fine. This is fine.”
“We’re not fine.”
“No, but we’re caffeinated. It’s a start.”
We stand there. Both of us staring at the ring like it might start talking.
The coffee feels warm in my hands but I’m cold. That bone-deep cold that has nothing to do with January.
“I showered twice yesterday,” I say finally. “Scrubbed until my skin turned red. But I can still smell it. The bleach. The chemicals. Dom’s cleanup crew.”
“Dylan—”
“The ring is all that’s left of her.” My voice cracks. “And it’s in a fucking sandwich bag like she was leftovers.”
Alex sets her mug down. Crosses to me. Does that thing where she grabs my face with both hands.
“Hey. Look at me.”
I do.
“We’re going to find out who she was. We’re going to figure this out. But first—” She releases my face. Grabs her tarot deck from where she left it last night. “—I need to ask if this is hers. If she’s trying to communicate. If?—”
“You’re going to ask a dead woman if that’s her ring.”
“Via tarot. Yes.” She’s already shuffling. Fast. Nervous. “Unless you have a better method of contacting the deceased. Ouija board? Séance? I could light some sage and?—”
“Just pull the card.”
She cuts the deck. Her hand hovers.
“Alex.”
The card flips.
My stomach drops before I even see which one. That cold-hot thing at my spine coils tight. My body knows before my eyes register.
