Chapter 42

Schwartzman threaded her half-circle number-five suture needle and pinched together the edges of the Y-incision to close the victim’s chest.

The chest and torso had been badly burned, and the fire left the skin fragile. The body was in bad shape, so there would be no open casket.

She could have closed the chest with staples, but she preferred sutures.

Some people meditated. Schwartzman worked in the morgue.

Alone in the morgue felt like meditation.

Her phone buzzed on the table. A message was from Hailey. Glad u came to RC. See u tmrrw.

She had enjoyed herself at dinner. She did that rarely. Relaxation usually came from being lost in a case at the morgue, home alone with a book or occasionally an old black-and-white movie—usually one her father had loved.

But she never enjoyed herself with other people.

Not anymore.

She socialized, made small talk and managed it as a necessary part of life. But for years, joy had been something she only found alone. Tonight, that wasn’t true. She had enjoyed that group of women. Police officers no less. As a medical examiner, most of her interactions would be with the police. That would be her day-to-day.

She hadn’t considered that she would find friends there.

Maybe she had.

She called Hal with the results of the autopsy. The burn victim was dead before the fire. No signs of smoke inhalation. A blood clot in his lungs killed him.

It was a better way to go. “You want me to call Hailey with the results?” she asked.

“No. I’ll tell her,” Hal said. “You ready for another one?”

“Sure,” Schwartzman said. She was always game for another case.

And working with Hal was a bonus.

She appreciated the way he had handled her that day in the morgue—when she was so rattled. When Spencer said her mother was in the hospital.

Hal hadn’t mentioned it again.

She was especially grateful for that.

“I’ll text the address and send over a picture from Dispatch,” Hal said. “I’m about five minutes out.”

“I’ll try to leave here in the next ten.” She ended the call and removed her lab coat, hanging it in her narrow locker.

After exchanging the orange Crocs she wore in the lab for her street shoes, she packed up her case for the scene. Her phone buzzed with the address Hal had sent. She double-clicked on the attached image. Waited as it loaded.

The image came into focus.

A woman. About Schwartzman’s age. Wavy, brunette hair. Laid out on her bed. Shivers rippled across Schwartzman’s skin like aftershocks. Someone had already put a sheet over her legs and stomach, as though she’d been found nude, but a thin strip of her clothing was visible above her waist.

Other than the pale color of her skin, she might have been sleeping.

In her hands was a small bouquet of yellow flowers.