before he sighed and shifted a folder on his desk. “Autopsy’s this afternoon?”
Steve nodded.
“Good. Wrap this up as quick as you can. The media is already circling. Let’s not give the buzzards anything to feed on.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Just do your job,” Walt said.
Easy enough for him to say, Steve thought as he got into his truck to make the forty-minute drive to the Medical Examiner’s office.
Do the job.
Get through the day.
Go through the motions.
Easy enough to do. Hell, he’d been operating on autopilot for almost three years. He ought to be relieved the chief didn’t want any more from him than the standard minimum requirement.
But he wasn’t. Dissatisfaction rode with him all the way to Chapel Hill like a sullen drunk in the back seat.
REGAN Poole had thought her day couldn’t possibly get worse. How could it get worse? It started with a fucking phone call at fucking four o’clock in the morning that shattered her sleep and her psyche.
It wasn’t fair. Children weren’t supposed to have to deal with bolt-out-of-bed calls in the night. That was a parent’s job. She remembering fumbling with her cell phone, heart pounding as she waited for her father’s tired voice on the other end of the line.
Can you come pick me up?
... bail me out?
... send me money?
... tell me everything will be all right?
But it wouldn’t be all right, Regan thought with a sting at her heart, whatever Paul said. He wasn’t really her father. Her real father was dead.
And now her mother was, too.
Regan’s hand tightened on the receiver. Count on Helen to make it all about her, even if she had to die to do it.
The telephone on the other end of the line rang mindlessly. Endlessly. Pick up, pick up, damn you, pick up . . .
Paul hadn’t been able to get hold of Richard. That’s what he’d said. Maybe it was even true. Maybe Richard had caller ID. God knew her brother was smart enough, selfish enough, to ignore a call in the middle of the night from their drunk and incoherent mother or the stepfather they both despised.
She jiggled the phone. More likely Richard had been out last night. Or he was wasted. Or stoned. Son of a bitch.
Which was why she was stuck calling him now.
Grievance built under her breastbone, pushing out the pain. She didn’t like to make personal calls at work. Someone might see and feel they had to make allowances for her. Regan never made allowances for herself. At twenty-three years old, she was the youngest account manager at the Buckhead bank branch, and she had to be better than any of them.
She jabbed her brother’s number into the phone again. Pick up, please pick up . . .
“ ’Lo?” Richard’s voice slurred.
Relief, grief, and worry flooded her eyes and spilled out. Not in tears. She would not let herself cry. In anger.
“Christ, Richard, it’s two in the afternoon. Did you just wake up?”
“Regan?” She pictured him blinking and unshaven, trying to focus. To cope. “What’s up?”
She pulled herself together. She could do this, she assured herself, shaking. She could do a better job of breaking the news than Paul had done.
“It’s Mom,” she said, reduced to mouthing her stepfather’s words after all. Because in the end, what else was there to say? “There’s been an accident.”
WITNESSES lied.
Bodies didn’t.
Not as long as the medical examiner knew his stuff.
Or in this case, her stuff, Steve thought, watching as Dr. Elizabeth Nguyen bent over the body of Helen Stokes Ellis. The ME was small, dark, and decisive, with black-rimmed glasses above her blue surgical mask and slender, gloved hands. She’d appeared surprised by Steve’s presence in her autopsy room. But when he didn’t badger her with questions or puke on his shoes, she seemed to warm to him.
Or maybe
Steve nodded.
“Good. Wrap this up as quick as you can. The media is already circling. Let’s not give the buzzards anything to feed on.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Just do your job,” Walt said.
Easy enough for him to say, Steve thought as he got into his truck to make the forty-minute drive to the Medical Examiner’s office.
Do the job.
Get through the day.
Go through the motions.
Easy enough to do. Hell, he’d been operating on autopilot for almost three years. He ought to be relieved the chief didn’t want any more from him than the standard minimum requirement.
But he wasn’t. Dissatisfaction rode with him all the way to Chapel Hill like a sullen drunk in the back seat.
REGAN Poole had thought her day couldn’t possibly get worse. How could it get worse? It started with a fucking phone call at fucking four o’clock in the morning that shattered her sleep and her psyche.
It wasn’t fair. Children weren’t supposed to have to deal with bolt-out-of-bed calls in the night. That was a parent’s job. She remembering fumbling with her cell phone, heart pounding as she waited for her father’s tired voice on the other end of the line.
Can you come pick me up?
... bail me out?
... send me money?
... tell me everything will be all right?
But it wouldn’t be all right, Regan thought with a sting at her heart, whatever Paul said. He wasn’t really her father. Her real father was dead.
And now her mother was, too.
Regan’s hand tightened on the receiver. Count on Helen to make it all about her, even if she had to die to do it.
The telephone on the other end of the line rang mindlessly. Endlessly. Pick up, pick up, damn you, pick up . . .
Paul hadn’t been able to get hold of Richard. That’s what he’d said. Maybe it was even true. Maybe Richard had caller ID. God knew her brother was smart enough, selfish enough, to ignore a call in the middle of the night from their drunk and incoherent mother or the stepfather they both despised.
She jiggled the phone. More likely Richard had been out last night. Or he was wasted. Or stoned. Son of a bitch.
Which was why she was stuck calling him now.
Grievance built under her breastbone, pushing out the pain. She didn’t like to make personal calls at work. Someone might see and feel they had to make allowances for her. Regan never made allowances for herself. At twenty-three years old, she was the youngest account manager at the Buckhead bank branch, and she had to be better than any of them.
She jabbed her brother’s number into the phone again. Pick up, please pick up . . .
“ ’Lo?” Richard’s voice slurred.
Relief, grief, and worry flooded her eyes and spilled out. Not in tears. She would not let herself cry. In anger.
“Christ, Richard, it’s two in the afternoon. Did you just wake up?”
“Regan?” She pictured him blinking and unshaven, trying to focus. To cope. “What’s up?”
She pulled herself together. She could do this, she assured herself, shaking. She could do a better job of breaking the news than Paul had done.
“It’s Mom,” she said, reduced to mouthing her stepfather’s words after all. Because in the end, what else was there to say? “There’s been an accident.”
WITNESSES lied.
Bodies didn’t.
Not as long as the medical examiner knew his stuff.
Or in this case, her stuff, Steve thought, watching as Dr. Elizabeth Nguyen bent over the body of Helen Stokes Ellis. The ME was small, dark, and decisive, with black-rimmed glasses above her blue surgical mask and slender, gloved hands. She’d appeared surprised by Steve’s presence in her autopsy room. But when he didn’t badger her with questions or puke on his shoes, she seemed to warm to him.
Or maybe
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