These clothes drain the life out of me—although it’s not unlike how I dress nowadays. Mom used to love dressing in bright colors. She wore scrubs to work, but on her days off, you’d find her in fluorescent yellow sundresses, baggy patterned overalls, and orange sweaters so bright no hunter would shoot her during deer season. Rosie owned hot pink everything. I wore tie-dye T-shirts almost every day. Dad used to joke that he needed sunglasses to look at us. After they died, I couldn’t bring myself to wear anything but Dad’s old practical clothes. Cargo pants. Plain gray hoodies. All things that looked good on Dad, but on me, they’re a constant visual reminder of how empty I feel.
Griffin motions between the three of us, pulling me out of the memory. Nico wanted someone with combat experience to drive us and run comms, much to DJ’s annoyance.
“I got a feeling we’re looking at the new dream team,” Griffin says.
“There’ll only ever be one dream team.” DJ turns to me. “Griff, Nico, and I used to go into the field together all the time—we were Donny’s go-to group for field work—so Griff called us the dream team.”
“Only because Nico lovedthe name so much,” Griffin adds with a grin that suggests Nico most definitely did notloveanything about that name.
It’s hard to imagine Nico going into the field if he won’t even go to crime scenes now. What changed?
Griffin holds up what looks like a tiny flesh-colored cochlear implant, dangling it in front of me.
“This beauty hooks around your ear,” he says. “You plug it into the cone DJ has, and you can listen to the echoes.”
I eye the device. “I thought DJ was doing the listening.”
“She is.” Griffin passes one of the earpieces to her, and she jams it in her ear. “But if she manages to catch something good, you should take a listen, too. Get a front-row seat to the ghost concert instead of the recap.”
I twist my mouth to the side. “Is that what we’re calling autopsies now?”
“I call them all kinds of things,” Griffin says. “Dead people listening parties. Morgue karaoke.”
“Stop talking,” DJ says, though she’s smiling.
Griffin steps closer to me, holding up the earpiece. “May I?”
Uh… I glance at DJ, who rolls her eyes. I nod.
Griffin steps closer. Closer than is probably necessary for inserting a small piece of technology into someone’s ear.
“How’s that feel?” he asks, his fingers brushing the shell of my ear as he loops the earpiece into place and inserts the tiny speaker into my ear canal.
“Good.”
He smells of citrus and something clean—laundry detergent, or maybe soap. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath stirring the little wisps of hair at my neck that escaped the industrial-strength hairspray.
I step backward to put some much-needed space between us, straightening my blouse with hands that are definitely not trembling. “Thanks for the hearing aid.”
I adjust the earpiece until it sits snugly in my ear, blocking out all sound. It’s disorienting.
“Sure thing.” His eyes do an obvious sweep from my face down to my bare legs, which are way too cold in this wind. “Skirt looks good on you, by the way.”
I’m hyperaware of how close he still is, how gentle his fingers were against my skin. “As opposed to my usual clothes?”
“I’m not picky,” he says.
“Oh my God.” DJ slams the van doors. “Griffin, go sit in the van and leave us alone before I tell Nico you’re being a creep.”
Griffin raises both hands. “Good luck in there, ladies. Try not to get arrested.”
He saunters back to the driver’s seat and pulls down the same tablet DJ used at the crime scene. I shake my head, trying to clear it as DJ grabs my hand and practically drags me toward the hospital entrance. Only when we’re out of earshot does she drop my hand and burst out laughing.
“Yourface,” she says between giggles. “You looked like you forgot how to breathe for a second.”
“I was breathing just fine.” But my cheeks are burning, which probably isn’t helping my case. “He was just… really close.”
“If he ever bothers you, like actually bothers you, just let me know, and I’ll throttle him,” she says. “I mean it.”
