“She’s eighty-three years old.”
“And she lights up like a Christmas tree every time you walk in.” I leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll text you when I’m wrapping up.”
“Deal.”
I climbed out of the Tahoe and headed for the side door. I was almost to the ramp when Jack called out.
“Jaye.”
I turned. He was leaning out the window, sunglasses pushed up on his head, that familiar half smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
Simple words. We said them all the time—tossed them out like spare change, easy and automatic. But sometimes, like now, they landed different. Heavier. A reminder that every goodbye could be the last one.
The kitchen was empty, stainless steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I could hear Emmy Lu’s voice drifting from somewhere in the front of the house—probably on the phone with a family, her tone shifting into that mix of sympathy and efficiency she’d perfected over twenty years of helping people navigate the worst days of their lives.
A plate of snickerdoodles sat on the counter with a sticky note in Emmy Lu’s looping handwriting: Eat something. I smiled despite myself. Between her and Jack, I’d never be allowed to skip a meal. I grabbed two cookies and ate them standing at the counter, washing them down with a bottle of water from the fridge. My stomach had finally settled after the dumpster smell this morning, and the sugar helped.
The reinforced steel door to the basement waited just off the kitchen. Beyond it, the victim waited too.
I tossed the empty bottle in the trash and headed downstairs to find out what the dead had to say.
CHAPTER THREE
The lab was a world unto itself.
Two thousand square feet of blindingly white tile and stainless steel, kept cold enough to make my breath visible in the air. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting everything in that flat, shadowless glare that left nowhere for secrets to hide. It smelled of antiseptic and something fainter beneath—the scent of a place where death was examined, cataloged, and ultimately explained.
Lily had set up while I was upstairs. The intake forms were stacked neatly on the desk, the case file started, the autopsy report template pulled up on the computer. She looked up when my footsteps echoed off the stairs, those vivid blue eyes sharp and alert despite the hour.
“Everything’s ready,” she said. “I’ve got the paperwork squared away and the equipment prepped.”
“Good.”
I crossed to my desk and grabbed the clipboard with the autopsy forms, then moved to the hooks by the door. The ritual of preparation was as familiar as breathing—lab coat first, the weight of it settling across my shoulders like armor. Then the heavy canvas apron, tied snug at my waist.
Finally, the gloves. I blew into each one before sliding my hands inside—an old trick from my ER days that warmed the latex just enough to make it bearable against my skin. The snap of them settling into place was its own kind of signal. Time to work.
“Alexa,” I said, “play some Weeknd.”
The opening notes of “Earned It” purred through the speakers, all smoky bass and seduction.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Lily was already on her feet, waving her hands. “Alexa, stop.”
The music cut off. I raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“That song is on Cole’s…” She paused, color rising in her cheeks. “Playlist.”
“His playlist.”
“His playlist playlist. The one he puts on when we’re…” She gestured vaguely, her face now roughly the color of a tomato.
“Ah.” I bit back a smile. “So you’re telling me you can’t focus on an autopsy while listening to the same song you and Cole?—”
“Can we please just pick something else?”
