“Shocker.” Detective Sawyer rolled her eyes at me. “No, I mean something more interesting, like… what made you want to become a forensic pathologist? I doubt it was a childhood dream.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about work.” I pointed out.
“We aren’t allowed to talk aboutmywork. Yours is fine,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “So come then, doc, tell me. Have you always wanted to cut people open for a living or what?”
“Well, when you phrase it like that, it sounds significantly less appealing.” I chuckled. I let the question linger for a moment, turning it over in my mind. “I suppose I’ve always liked puzzles. Mysteries. Every dead body tells a story if you know how to read it.”
“Huh.” She tilted her head, studying me with renewed interest. “I guess we aren’t so different, you and I. I like a good mystery, too.”
“You’ve always known you wanted to become a detective, I gather.”
She nodded. “For sure. I got it from my father—wanted to follow in his footsteps and all that. Turns out it’s a lot more paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit than he initially let on, however.”
So it ran in the family. Not surprising, really. It was easy to imagine a young Detective Sawyer, earnest and determined, absorbing stories at the dinner table, drawn in by the promise of justice before she learned how narrow and unforgiving that road could be.
“Do you have any siblings?” I asked.
“Just me. You?—actually, no. Let me guess.” She leaned forward suddenly, a spark of interest igniting in her eyes. “You’re definitely an older brother. That’s the feeling I get. You’ve got that whole uptight, responsible thing going on.”
“Is that how you do your detective work? Based on feeling?”
“Most definitely.” She grinned, unrepentant. “Instinct is half the job, don’t you know. But you still didn’t answer the question.”
“I had a younger sister.”
Detective Sawyer caught the implication almost immediately, her expression changing as something gentler slipped through. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. It wasn’t a story I was willing to share, either way. Better to keep it locked away where it belonged, sealed off in a place I knew better than to revisit.
Detective Sawyer didn’t push, seemingly sensing the invisible boundary I’d drawn. She changed the subject. “So, what do you read then? Please tell me it’s not just medical journals and forensic textbooks.”
“I do read those,” I admitted, grateful for the shift. “But no, not exclusively. Fiction, mostly. Classics.”
“What kind of fiction?”
“Various genres. Historical, occasionally. Literary fiction. Some philosophy.”
“Of course you read philosophy.” She shook her head, anamused smile tugging at her lips. “Let me guess—you’re a Nietzsche guy. Or maybe Kant. Something dense and German.”
“I’ve read both, but I wouldn’t say I’m devoted to either.”
“So who then? Give me your favorite.”
I considered it for a moment. “Camus, maybe. I’ve always found something appealing about absurdism.”
“The universe is meaningless so we might as well make our own meaning?” She raised her glass. “I can drink to that.”
The conversation flowed easily after that, meandering through topics without putting much thought behind it. She asked about the best pizza place in the city—she swore by Angeli’s on Thacher Street, I defended Marco’s on the waterfront. We debated whether dogs or cats made better pets. She was firmly team dog, naturally, citing loyalty and enthusiasm, while I appreciated the independence of cats.
Though we had agreed we’d stay away from any work-related topics, they still crept in eventually. She told me about one of her cases, where a suspect launched into a full confession the moment they sat down—only for it to become clear that they were talking about an unrelated misdemeanor from decades earlier. I shared a story about a particularly memorable autopsy mishap involving an overeager medical student and a misplaced organ sample that had caused minor chaos in the lab.
I found myself relaxing despite everything. Having fun, even. The minutes stretched into an hour, then two, the bar gradually beginning to empty around us.
Eventually, Detective Sawyer tossed back the last of her drink. “Damn. I should probably stop now before I startreallyoversharing.”
She stretched, rolling her shoulders back, working out the tension that seemed to live permanently between her shoulder blades. She let out a small sigh before meeting my eyes. Something in them flickered, making the air between us shift. My pulse quickened for reasons I couldn’t name.
She played with the phone in her hands, turning it over and over, like she was deciding on something. “So, then…” she said, her voice carrying a note I couldn’t quite place. “Your place or mine?”
