Chapter 2
HARPER-RAYN
The giant bottle of water I’d consumed while working on my report suddenly makes itself known, and the overwhelming need to pee hits me like a freight train as I stand terrified in the middle of the morgue.
My heart booms like a bass drum, and I take the desperate urge to pee as a blessing in disguise, using it as my excuse to escape the one place that usually brings me peace.
My feet pound against the linoleum, and within seconds, I’m flying through the door and making sure I hear the click of the automated lock behind me.
It’s all in my head. It has to be.
There isn’t a psychopath in the morgue waiting to turn me into chopped liver. Perhaps all the late nights and corpses are finally getting to me. I can only imagine what my mother would say, assuming I ever told her about it.
After hightailing it to the bathroom, I take my time, waiting for the eeriness to fade from my bones, but at this point, it would take a miracle for that to happen.
I’m well aware that what I do for work isn’t considered a normal profession.
Most people would say it’s fucked up—most people being my mother, of course—and not to mention, the type of things I see aren’t for the faint of heart.
I usually counterbalance the horror with music, playing it throughout the morgue as I work and sing along to keep my mind off the heaviness of what’s on my table, but tonight while I tried to piece together the mystery of the poisoned turkey sub, not a beat of music was played.
I got carried away with my report, and perhaps that allowed the weirdness to creep in.
That’s all that happened tonight . . . right?
I’m not exactly thrilled with the lackluster excuses I’m telling myself, but they’re better than the alarm bells ringing at the back of my mind, warning me that something isn’t right. That somebody was in there, watching me like a stalker. But that’s crazy.
This stuff only happens in movies, and I’m no Detective Olivia Benson.
I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to get myself out of that kind of situation.
I’d fumble at the first sign of trouble.
I’m the girl in the movie who trips over her feet and all but offers herself up as a screaming sacrifice to the ax-wielding murderer.
Ahhh crap.
I’m definitely overthinking this.
After wasting too much time in the bathroom, I wash my hands and splash water over my face, not caring that I was a cheapskate and dropped the ball when it came to purchasing a good waterproof mascara.
Black lines streak down my cheeks, and I grab some paper towels to clean myself up.
But what does it matter? It’s not like I see anyone down in my little refrigerated dungeon, and if there is someone lurking in the morgue, I’m never going to see the light of day again anyway.
So, who cares if I look like a drowned rat?
Though I suppose someone I know will stumble upon my body come morning, and after all the tears, they’ll get straight back to work and diligently scrub every speck of makeup from my body.
I guess that means they’re also going to see me naked, and if I knew that earlier, I would have worn nicer underwear.
Just my fucking luck.
Feeling only a fraction better about my impending doom, I wander back down to the morgue with shaking hands.
I clutch my access card between my fingers just to give me something to hold on to.
Then as I hover in front of the big double doors of the morgue, I begin to fret, terrified of what I’m about to walk into.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-eight for fuck’s sake. I haven’t been scared of the dark since I was a little girl. I don’t get jumpy when watching scary movies, and I sure as fuck don’t let silly shit get the best of me.
I’m going to walk back in there. I’ll find my portable speaker and pump some music, so I can put this shit behind me.
There are now only two or so hours left of my shift.
I’ll be fine. Then tonight, I can go home, meet up with Laith, and forget all about the weird tingles that sailed down my spine while he rails me with that big and long schlong—number two.
Finding new confidence, I hold my head high and swipe my access card before pushing my way through the heavy doors.
I’m not a scared little bitch. I’m a badass forensic pathologist .
. . almost. Shit like this shouldn’t get to me.
I’m a woman of science, and I don’t let a strange little shiver down my spine send me running for the hills; I’m better than that.
Besides, if my mind wants to play games on me, then I can play right back.
I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to do that, but there’s nothing I love more than petty games.
The heavy door falls closed behind me with a loud thud, and the sound of the automatic lock clicking into place goes a long way to reassure me that I’m not going crazy.
I just had a moment of weakness, but now that it has passed, I can get back to work being the boss bitch I’ve always intended to be.
Striding through the chilled morgue, I approach my desk while trying to remember where the hell I left my speaker, when something from the corner of my eye catches my attention. My brows furrow, and I turn while slowing my pace to an abrupt standstill.
My heart lurches into a fierce race as I stare across the massive room at the single black rose that lies in the center of my autopsy table.
What in the ever-loving fuck? This isn’t possible.
The door was locked. Nobody was in here. I checked it before I peed. There’s no way that rose could have found its way onto that table.
Unless . . . I was wrong.
This isn’t just some bullshit my head has conjured due to a lack of music while writing up reports. I’m not going insane. The chills down my spine were real. The gut feeling was real. The fear was all fucking real.
There was somebody watching me, somebody inside the morgue with me.
The black rose stares back at me like a wretched taunt, and as a million thoughts and fears spiral through my mind like a wild tornado, I realize that gifting me a black rose is going to be the last thing that some fucked-up stalker is going to want with me.
I’ve seen this game play out a million times before. I’ve seen the women who wind up on my table. I’ve seen the sick way they’re preyed upon. That can’t be me. I won’t allow it. Then without a moment of hesitation, I nope the fuck out of there, running faster than my feet can possibly take me.
What if this person never left? What if they’re still here, watching and waiting to put my cold, dead body on this very autopsy table?
Hell fucking no. That won’t be me.
My feet pound one after another, only just reaching my bag in the nick of time.
My timing is impeccable as I scoop it up, not bothering to check if everything is packed inside.
If I leave something behind, then I wish it all the best in its future endeavors, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when I stop and go back for something as trivial as my water bottle or the pack of gum that usually resides at the bottom of my bag.
With my belongings intact, I bolt for the door, the panic surging inside of me like a torrential storm.
My hand automatically reaches for my access card on my hip, frantically trying to swipe it to get the fuck out of here as my terrified gaze risks a glance behind me, desperately searching the wide-open space but coming up empty.
My movements are too shaky, and I have to swipe my access card three more times before the little red light turns green and I hear the familiar sound of the automatic door unlocking.
Certain that somebody is about to come after me at any given second, I yank the door open and fly through it, clipping my shoulder on the metal edge in the process.
“Ahh fuck!”
Pain surges through my shoulder, but I push through it. I’m sure that’s going to hurt come morning, but right now, I couldn’t care less. All that matters is getting the hell out of here.
My feet are thunderous in the empty hallways, but I push myself faster, desperate to get out of the basement.
Then as I reach the elevator, my chest constricts with fear.
Do I stand here like a fucking idiot, waiting for this mystery rose gifter to catch up to me as I twiddle my thumbs, waiting for the elevator to ding with its arrival, or do I take an even bigger risk and enclose myself in the stairs?
I’d only have to sprint up three flights. How long could it possibly take?
Fuck. Stairs it is.
I know it’s stupid, but I can’t just stand here waiting. I have to keep moving.
My stomach knots with unease, and I take the leap, darting toward the stairwell before wrenching open the access door. It’s creepy as fuck, but I forge ahead, not allowing myself a moment to linger on the fear.
The faster I run, the quicker I’ll be out.
My feet slam against the old stairs, and the sound of my heavy breaths is almost deafening as I fly past the first flight. I try to listen for any other noises while keeping my gaze locked on my path, terrified of taking a misstep and falling.
The second flight of stairs passes in a blur, but the third feels like a whole fucking lifetime passes before I finally reach the floor I’m searching for. Then as I emerge onto the main floor of the deserted hospital, a sense of ease pounds through my veins.
There are a few people wandering around; night nurses and doctors.
It’s long after visiting hours, and the emergency department is in a different wing of the hospital.
It’s always busy over there, no matter what time of the day or night it is.
But this little section of the hospital generally offers peace.
Only right now, that peace couldn’t be further away.
Despite feeling somewhat at ease, I don’t slow my pace as I race through the hospital.
The few people wandering around glance my way, but not one of them stops to ask me what’s going on.
Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have entertained their questions in the first place.
Seeing random people in scrubs running through the hallways of a hospital isn’t entirely an odd occurrence.
Most of the time, you shuffle aside and let them pass while minding your own business.
I break out into the unusually cool September night, but the adrenaline keeps me from dwelling on it as I hurry toward the parking garage.
When I arrived earlier in the evening, it was almost impossible to find a space, but now, after midnight, my little Honda Civic is one of the only cars in the lot.
As I hurry toward it, I dive into my bag, feeling around for my keys. Only as I get closer, I realize the internal lights are on, and for the second time tonight, I come to a dead stop.
No. No fucking way.
This is not happening.
I back away from the car as my every nightmare becomes a startling realization.
There are a million reasons why the lights could be on.
I could have simply not locked up properly or forgotten to turn them off when I checked my reflection in the visor mirror.
Yet despite that, I’m not willing to take the risk.
I’m not becoming a statistic tonight.
Instead, I bolt around to the other side of the hospital, keeping to the busier pathways, each of them brightly lit with streetlights, until I finally reach the emergency room.
People are everywhere—patients feeling sorry for themselves, doctors, nurses, irritated family members who would rather be anywhere but here in the middle of the night.
The rush of people offers me an out, and I collapse into one of the many chairs of the waiting room as the sounds of sick and injured patients fill the air. Coughs and groans would usually send me running for the hills, but tonight, I find it comforting.
After convincing myself to abandon my Civic for the night and have security check it out tomorrow, I book an Uber and wait. Tonight hasn’t exactly gone as planned, but now that I’m out of there, I can try to regain some semblance of control.
I’m annoyed that I didn’t get a chance to finish my report.
I make a habit of being punctual with my work.
I don’t like getting behind or letting work pile up, especially when those reports could potentially help put a murderer behind bars.
Letting down the team isn’t my forte, but I’m sure they’ll understand.
My Uber arrives only a few minutes later, and I rush into the car the moment I can. The driver steps on the gas, and I sink into the leather seat, knowing I won’t completely feel at ease until I get home to my small apartment.
Shit. Home. Laith is supposed to be coming over.
I cringe and bring up his information in my phone, not even able to smile at his contact name. I hit call and lift the phone to my ear before hearing Laith’s deep tone sailing through the little speaker. “Shit, tiger. Couldn’t wait till the end of your shift? Are you that desperate for me?”
Damn. Why does he have to make this so hard?
“Hey,” I say slowly, knowing he can immediately sense that something is off. “I’m sorry. It’s been a weird night at work. Raincheck?”
“What are you talking about? What happened?”
My lips press into a hard line, twitching and stretching as I try to figure out what the hell to say. But as I sit in the back of the Uber with the driver more than capable of listening to my conversation, I feel like now isn’t exactly the best time to get into the details. “It’s just—”
“One of your cases?”
“Umm . . . yeah,” I say slowly, hating that I’m lying to him. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m not feeling it right now. I just need to go home, crash, and try to forget.”
“Fuck that, tiger. You can’t get rid of me that easily. Besides, what else am I supposed to do with this mask?”
“Laith—”
“Try and fucking stop me, Harper. I’m getting in the car now.”
“Lai—”
The line goes dead, and I let out a heavy sigh. Fucking men. Why do they always have to be so goddamn stubborn?