Technically, the autopsy could wait until morning, but the cadaver had been chilling in the refrigeration room since morning without so much as a glance from her. Which was far longer than Shelia, ever the consummate professional, preferred. Her tired gaze fixed on the victim’s statistics: Elizabeth Lori Miller, Caucasian, aged twenty-eight, murder victim, neither wife nor mother to anyone.
Shelia, on the other hand, was both, and she desperately wanted to get home to her family. She reached under her lab coat and cupped her breasts instinctively. Sweet baby Jay—her Jay Bird, as she and her husband, Scott, called him—had been on a bottle for weeks, though her chest still sometimes ached around his feeding time.
Shelia, thinking of Scott’s impatience in the kitchen, grimaced. If the formula wasn’t served at the right temperature, Jay would projectile vomit like a little pink sprinkler head. Though she worked on putrefied bodies all day, her child’s puke was the only thing that put her stomach on edge. Oh, God, and the smell! She constantly reminded Scott not to warm the formula too quickly, which caused it to caramelize, but he couldn’t seem to get it right. The man had the culinary skills of a Neanderthal. It was that, or perhaps her dear hubby believed that she might stop asking him to help her altogether if he screwed up enough times. She wasn’t falling for that weaponized incompetence nonsense. She needed all the help she could get.
Shelia resigned herself to the imminent baby barf shower that would ensue the instant she walked through the door of her modest home in Danville. It was like Jay timed getting sick for her arrival. Deep in her weary heart, she adored her family and viewed the bond she shared with Jay and Scott as sacred. Still, occasionally it would be lovely to come home to an empty house, a warm bubble bath, and chilled glass of rosé. Had she known what married parenthood would look like, she would have cherished every minute of her single life while she’d had it.
Sighing, Shelia leaned back in her office chair and cracked her spine. The hands on the wall clock above her ticked rhythmically, as if to taunt her about the hour. It was a few minutes after six.
She studied the empty parking lot through the fourth-floor window. As usual, she was one of the few people who remained in the building. It was just her, the cleaning crew, and her college intern, Johnny. Her frowny gaze traveled to the metal pegs that jutted out from the wall by the entryway. Johnny’s jacket was gone. So much for having a helper.Even the intern gets to leave earlier than I do, she thought miserably.What’s wrong with this picture?
If she ever wanted to get out of the place at a decent time, she’d need to get a move on. She snapped up the dead girl’s file and pushed her chair back from the desk. As she stood, a rumbling came up from her belt. When was the last time she’d had a full meal? Had she eatenanythingall day? She couldn’t recall. She also couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a full night of uninterrupted sleep.
Shelia felt as if her brain had been on autopilot from the moment Jay had emerged from her womb. If given a choice, she’d happily trade the empty house, bubble bath, and rosé for a few hours of uninterrupted rest. Back when she was pregnant, friends and strangers alike had assured her that she wouldn’t sleep through the night after she gave birth. She’d smugly dismissed them, convinced thatherbaby would be different, having no idea just how right they were.
Shelia’s stomach growled louder—um, hello, feed me—prompting a frenzied reach for the glass jar of emergency M&M’s she kept tucked away in her desk drawer for times when her blood sugar level rivaled that of the bodies she examined. If she were to be honest with herself, most of her meals were emergency M&M’s as of late.
She grabbed a fistful of candy and crammed it into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the euphoria of chocolate melting on her tongue.Dinner of champions.
Shelia grabbed another handful of M&M’s and stuffed it into the hip pocket of her lab coat. It was cold enough where she was headed that she didn’t need worry about it melting into a solid lump. She tucked the file under her elbow, hitting the lights as she offered the empty room a parting glance.
30
LIZ
Liz awakened in absolute blackness. She shook her head in confusion, struggling to break free from visions of cruelness and death, a ghoulish nightmare that had left her shuddering violently in her bed. But she wasn’t in her bed, was she?
Where am I?
Why is it so cold?
Struck by a fit of painful coughs, she cried out, fighting to remain motionless. Everything ached. Her bones hummed and burned; her skin felt as if it had been dipped in acid. She recalled . . . an assault. Her brain seized when she hunted for details within her murky recollections.
Focus.
Robert. She’d been with Robert, and . . . Olivia? No, they’d discussed Olivia over coffee. Then David called and . . . Carl drove her home. Then?
Damn it! Why couldn’t she remember?
She clenched her fists as a new kind of pain coursed through her veins; it was almost electric. Convulsing, she gnashed her teeth together until her jaw clicked. If the throbbing in her skull didn’t cease, her eyes might pop right out of their sockets. She reached up to massage her temple, panicking as she realized that her arms were restricted.
She scratched her nails against a smooth, pliable surface. She sniffed, detecting a harsh synthetic odor. Plastic? She twisted her arm up so that she could reach an inch or two above her face, detecting a zipper. She’d seen enough crime television shows to know what she was in. A body bag.
Have I been buried alive?
“Oh, please-please-please no,” she whimpered. She parted her lips to scream, the thick vinyl smothering her mouth. Panicked, she clawed until the tops of her fingers broke through to glorious fresh air. She reached her hands through the hole and ripped herself free, as if she’d been encased in nothing more than tissue paper.
The air outside the body bag was freezing. It was dark too. She rubbed at her eyes, surprised that she could see as well as if it were daylight. As she moved through room, she could make out individual shapes, colors, and even read the sign on the door: SIGN OUT WHEN YOU LEAVE.
She held her hand out in front of her face and wiggled her fingers, individual hairs and pores jumping out at her with 3-D effect. The strawberry-colored birthmark she’d had on her wrist since birth was inexplicably gone. What stunned her more was the impossibly long flaming-red hair that spilled over her shoulders and ended at the bottoms of her breasts. How could that be?
She reached up and scratched at her neck. No injury, but lots of crust. As she pulled her hand away, she saw dried blood under her nails. She brought her fingers up to her nose and sniffed. The scent was delicious.
Delicious?Didn’t she mean disgusting?
She jumped as her hip bumped up against a solid shape. Another body bag. She extended a shaky hand out to touch it, yelping as she discovered that it was not empty. Her gaze traveled the length of the wall; a dozen other corpses lay stacked on shelves. Some of the bodies were naked on slabs, partially covered by sheer plastic sheets.
A thick wave of nausea slashed through her abdomen. She bent at the waist, retching as fiery pain burned up in her throat. Abruptly, the agony subsided.
