To the Bone by Neil McMahon

He exuded brisk competence.
    â€œI know I should get something more sensible,” Monks said. “She’s like an old dog I can’t bear to part with.”
    â€œHey, I hear you. I had a seventy-five. I’ve been kicking myself ever since I sold it.” He patted the Jaguar’s hood. “Although I’ve got to admit, I wouldn’t mind having one of these.”
    â€œIt’s a beautiful machine,” Monks agreed.
    â€œOnly for the rich and famous. I try to take care of it for the doc. Especially, like now. He’s pretty bummed out.”
    â€œSo I’ve gathered.”
    â€œYeah,” Todd said, and this time Monks imagined accusation in his tone. He wondered if Todd had overheard his conversation with D’Anton, and—like everyone else—blamed Monks for troubling the great man; if his seeming friendliness had only been a setup to take a shot.
    But then, Monks thought, he was imagining all kinds of things by now. He waved good-bye to Todd anyway.
    Monks started the engine, sorting through his impressions. It seemed clear that Gwen Bricknell and Julia D’Anton knew each other well. Not many physicians’ receptionists would feel comfortable shaking and scolding their boss’s wife.
    And it seemed that Eden Hale had been more than just another patient, whom Gwen remembered only because of her unusual name. The way that Julia had blurted it out, with Gwen picking up on it instantly and hushing her, suggested familiarity there, too. Monks had intended to lead the conversation in that direction, to see what he might uncover. But Gwen had headed that off.
    Monks remembered the tattoo on Eden’s rump, and Ray Dreyer’s sleazy persona. These did not jibe with the elegant world of women like Gwen and Julia. He wondered what relationship they might have had with her.
    Wondered why Gwen Bricknell had lied about it.
    Â 
    D’Anton stepped into an empty procedure room and slumped back against the wall with his face in his hands. It was the room where he had operated, yesterday, on Eden Hale. A few more sessions of sculpting her face, and the perfection within her would have shone forth.
    He knew female flesh as very few people ever had—by sight, by scent, and, above all, by touch. He knew the strength and tone of the muscles under his fingertips, the suppleness of the skin. How best to enhance them, and how long that would last. Most of his patients were attractive, and many were beautiful.
    But Eden was far beyond that.
    To the uneducated eye, she had been nothing really special. But D’Anton had seen deeper the instant he first had noticed her. She had an ideal bone structure, a superb musculature, and a quality to her flesh that was the closest to perfection he had ever found—precisely the right combination of firmness and yielding, seeming to give off an energy of its own that spread through his hands and made touching her almost hypnotic.
    He would never feel that warmth again.
    He pushed away from the wall and strode to a conference room where Gwen Bricknell and his wife, Julia, were talking in low, urgent tones. At the sound of the opening door, both swiveled to look at him.
    â€œThat scum of a boyfriend left Eden alone last night,” D’Anton said to Gwen. “Why the hell did you let her go with him?”
    Gwen’s eyes went fierce in return. “It’s not up to me to make that judgment, Doctor. She chose him. He’s a competent adult.”
    â€œHe’s neither of those things!”
    â€œThen from now on, you can vet them yourself.” She tossed her head defiantly.
    â€œBlame yourself, Welles,” Julia cut in. She was glaring, too, her earlier shock turning to rage, her voice trembling. “If you’d left Eden alone, none of this would have happened.”
    D’Anton stifled the urge to snap back at her. There were other pressing worries to be dealt with, and the most immediate one was