THIS IS ALL I CAN PULL. DON’T ASK FOR MORE. TOO MANY EYES ON THIS FILE.
I grabbed my laptop and loaded the file, my pulse loud in my ears. The autopsy report filled the screen line by line, dry and clinical.
Toxicology showed a fatal dose of OxyContin. Typical for an OD.
Except ... I frowned and leaned in closer, heart beginning to pound again.
Contusions along the ribcage. Bruising on the upper arms. Subtle ligature marks on both wrists.
It didn’t add up. Not for a man who had been clean.
I stared at the line that stated,‘Probable cause of death: overdose.’
Probable, not definitive. That word echoed in my head.
I shut the laptop and shoved it under my pillow then stood. I didn’t bother to shower, I changed into jeans and my boots. I tied my hair back and grabbed the pill bottle, sliding it into my coat pocket.
The motel air smelled stale and dusty, but it was familiar. Safer, in a strange way, than where I was about to go.
I picked up the burner phone again and sent one last message.
Me: Going to the station. If I disappear, you know why.
No dramatic goodbye, just facts. There was nobody left to miss me anyway.
I slipped the phone into my back pocket, then I walked out the door and asked the guy at the motel reception to print off two copies of the report for me before heading straight back to the police station. This time, it wasn’t to identify a body. Now, I wanted answers.
Chapter 4
Lucy
The police station smelled like burnt coffee, disinfectant, and sweat. I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, the air conditioner humming like it hated its job.
The police officer behind the desk barely looked up from her sandwich when I gave my name. She squinted at her monitor, made a face like she’d swallowed the wrong condiment, and told me to wait.
Five minutes later, I was ushered into a small, windowless room by two detectives who looked like they hadn’t chased anything but a buffet in years. Both wore short-sleeved shirts straining at the buttons and identical expressions of forced patience.
“Miss Kane,” the taller one said, his badge swinging lazily from his belt. “We understand you have... concerns.”
“Questions,” I corrected, taking the seat they didn’t offer but clearly expected me to sit in.
The second detective sank into the chair across from me with a wheeze. He glanced at a folder, probably empty, and said, “We already went over the facts. Your brother?—”
“Was clean,” I cut in. “For three years. No slip-ups. He worked at a garage in town, went to his meetings, kept his noseclean.”
The tall detective folded his arms. “And yet, he was found dead with a bottle of Oxy next to him. No signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle. Toxicology confirms lethal dose. That’s a pretty standard OD.”
I pulled the printed report from my coat pocket and slid it across the table. “Except for the bruising. Ribs, arms, and marks on his wrists. Looks like a struggle to me.”
Their eyes narrowed. The tall detective glanced at the report, jaw tightening before he slid it aside. “That part doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
My stomach dropped. He’d seen the bruises and didn’t care, or maybe he cared too much, maybe enough to bury them. I knew my father had contacts in the police force, so maybe the Dead Knights did too.
“How’d you get this?” the short one asked, tapping the report with a podgy finger.
I said nothing.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch. “You know accessing this without permission could be considered a federal offence?”
