Minka
MINKA
“ W hat the hell am I supposed to do about him?”
The record is going. My building, mostly quiet, even with the night shift staff going about their work. Copeland City, outside the floor to ceiling windows I lean against, is pitch black but for the lights. And all the while, Aubree makes the Y cut in Naomi’s chest and prepares the separators to open her up.
“He’s coming to my workplace,” she growls. “Stepping on to crime scenes. Muddying waters and compromising investigations. And for what? To annoy me?”
It’s fun to see her all out of sorts. To see the typically easygoing, hippie-esque, happy-all-the-damn-time Aubree Emeri lose her shit. And even with the recorder on, I can’t muster a lot of energy to tell her to stop.
Timothy Malone has made a move.
A giant, more-than-coffee declaration, without saying the actual words. And now Aubs has no clue how to right her tilting world.
“He gave me the freakin’ emeralds, Mayet.” Plastic glasses cover her eyes, and an apron protects her clothes. She wears gloves on her hands, and still has blood smears on her wrist. She cracks an eighteen-year-old mother-to-be’s chest, filleting muscle and fat to the side before setting the separators in place. And all the while, she obsesses on the love life she doesn’t actually have with the man who was born to lead his family in a dark, dark mafia underworld. “Then Archer told you the story about the Irish Malones. Tim would have known that story too, right? He didn’t just coincidentally give me a gift that means what Archer says it means, without realizing the implications behind the gift.”
“Coincidences are rarely coincidences.” I fold my arms and settle against the glass. “Usually it’s just a buzzword used to calm tensions or gaslight someone into thinking things aren’t as they so obviously seem.”
“Right!” She pulls back from Naomi, but studies the girl’s chest cavity. The damaged heart. The sliced organ. “Blade lacerated her left lateral ventricle. For the record.”
“Noted.” I should probably be at the table with her. Helping. I should be her Aubree, since she so often assists me. But she asked to do the autopsy, so… she can do it. “Is that your formal diagnosis for how Ms. Wallace died?”
“Preliminary…” She slowly nods, her eyes plastered to Naomi’s organs. “Yes.”
“Why prelim?”
“Because it looks obvious. It seems obvious. It probably is that obvious.”
“A horse is usually a horse,” I concur. “It’s rarely a zebra.”
“Right. But you want me to run the entire autopsy before I lock in on a C.O.D.”
“Good.” I kick one foot over the other and pray these windows won’t simply fall off the side of our nine-story office. “Keep going. We need to grab samples for the lab, too.”
“Yeah, I’ll get them.” But she casts her eyes lower, to Naomi’s swollen womb, then up and over at me. “I’m going all the way, aren’t I?”
“Yep.” I link my hands together in front of me, giving them something to do, because I so desperately want to push away from the window and take over.
But I don’t.
I won’t bring Aubree’s ability to do the job into question. Even when the job, today, is especially delicate.
“Standard autopsy means we take it all out and bag it up. The fact that she’s pregnant means we get the fetus, too.”
“Is it a fetus?” Tilting her head to the side, she picks up her scalpel, but she doesn’t cut yet. “Or is it a baby?”
“Medically? Or emotionally?” I drag my lip between my teeth and allow her time to process. To grieve, though we see death daily. Hourly. “Scientifically, a fetus is a fetus until it’s born. That’s the standard with which we work under. ”
“It wasn’t viable outside its mother’s body yet.” She places her scalpel at the bottom of her original Y cut and prepares to extend it down. “The second Naomi stopped breathing, so did her child.”
“It’s not the same as that other case we had earlier this year. Melissa Boyd.”
“The one who was forced to deliver, and then murdered during, or right after, giving birth.” She glances up and searches my eyes. “You don’t think it’s kinda the same?”
“Melissa’s baby could, and has, survived outside the womb. Physically, she’s thriving despite her mother’s murder. This baby,” I study Naomi’s belly, “was still months from viability. I’m not sure how that plays into the detectives’ investigation and eventual arrest. Is it double homicide, since two lives ended? Or singular, since the baby wasn’t, technically, a viable human being?”
“I don’t know.” She draws a long breath, filling her chest and expanding her shoulders. Then exhaling again, she begins cutting. Carefully. Precision slicing, so she doesn’t puncture the amniotic sac until we’re ready. “Do you think Tim is, like… asking for a relationship? Or just a friendship where I’m never allowed to date anyone else, and he gets to control every move I make?”
I choke out a quiet laugh and watch, eagle eyed, as her blade moves over Naomi’s bump. It’s not huge. But the girl is thin, and her womb is protruding enough to create that distended shape.
“The day I think I have that man figured out is the day cows fly.” Unable to help myself, I push away from the window and head toward the table. But I don’t have gloves or an apron. So I don’t touch. I keep my arms behind my back to ensure it. “Timothy Malone is just… he’s the third of his name, Aubs. He was born to lead, and when Archer left the family, he chose him over the rest. He was raised to be…” I clear my throat, wildly conscious of the recorder still operating. “Well, you know what he was raised to be. Which means he carries a metric ton of trauma he desperately needs to work through. Except,” I find her eyes, despite the glare bouncing off the plastic shield, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I doubt very much he’s the therapy couch kinda guy. So he’s carrying all this baggage, and he’s head over heels, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you. The problem is, he considers you too special and sweet for his world. So he keeps you at arm’s length. He loves you from afar, except the times he’s near, like tonight. And in those cases, he’s not saying, ‘ I love you. ’ He’s saying, ‘ Make sure you eat or I’ll kick your ass .’ ”
“This is just…” She drags her scalpel all the way down to Naomi’s pubis and stops there, lifting her blade and firming her jaw. “Love is supposed to feel good. This doesn’t feel like that.”
“Because you don’t love him back?”
“Because he doesn’t make it easy or okay. He acts like love, between us , would be a crime. At first, it felt like a gentle brush-off he didn’t really mean. Like a game, almost. A tug of war most couples enjoy, like how you and Archer do it. But now, the thought of loving him makes my stomach clench. Like I’m gonna get in trouble if I admit it. Or allow it.”
“And just when you’re coming to terms with all that, and even considering getting a coffee with the guy, he gifts you something Archer essentially describes as a forever family heirloom for the person you’ll spend your life with.”
“Except, Tim doesn’t tell me the story! He doesn’t share the significance of the gift he’s giving. So I’m bopping around with my new hair clip like a total wanker, clueless to the implications of what it means, all the way up until you’re speaking your vows. And by that point, he’s holding my hand because I’m having a mini crisis and trying to escape, while keeping my breakdown silent, so I don’t ruin your wedding.”
I snicker and try to imagine that moment from her point of view, since I was too busy participating in my own wedding to notice the chaos surrounding me. “Bet he was holding on tight, huh? Saved you from jumping into the Caribbean.”
“Crushed my fingers,” she admits. “Pretty sure my hand is still bent out of shape because of him. So that’s where we’re at. He gifts me something really friggin’ important, but doesn’t tell me the significance. Then he refuses to let me drown myself just off the coast of Jamaica. He won’t discuss the Malone family story, despite my demands to do so, but he won’t let me go hungry or unsupervised for more than twenty-three seconds either. It’s a whole mess he refuses to clean up.”
“So…” I want so badly to move to the sink and wash my hands. To sanitize, glove up, and open Naomi’s belly. But Aubree’s already working, setting her scalpel down and gently peeling skin and muscle back. “I guess you should just let him feed you,” I conclude. “He’s not asking for a relationship. Or marriage. Not outwardly, anyway. He’s just asking to keep watch and make sure you’re safe. Until he’s ready to take his head out of his ass, that sounds like an ideal situation to me.”
“You say that because you like that everyone in your life feeds you. You’ve become accustomed to being fluffed. ”
“Fluffed?”
“Yeah, fluffed ! This world is made up of fluffers or fluffees. Archer and Tim, and even me, are the fluffers. We’re the ones who make sure you’re fed and warm and safe. We take care of you, because you won’t take care of yourself. And you’re the fluffee, the one who is used to meals being placed in your hand and blankets being draped on your lap.”
“Fluffers and fluffees?”
“Exactly! Every single person on this planet fluffs you, Mayet. Maybe not your whole life, but certainly since you’ve arrived in Copeland. I, on the other hand, am a fluffer. I’m the one who makes sure you eat and that you’re happy. I like my role in life. I like taking care of you. But Tim is also a fluffer, taking care of people. You and Archer are opposites. Fluffer and fluffee. It works, like yin and yang. But Tim and I are two yins, no yangs. And this particular yin won’t even discuss what the hell is going on, which only throws our balance further out of alignment. Yin and yang are supposed to create the perfect pairing of dark and light. We’re supposed to be equal opposites. But now we’re just… we’re both yangs. And two yangs can’t make a yin.”
“You’re saying a lot of things, Doctor Emeri, and lots of those things are the same things, just topsy turvy and repeated.”
She stares at me over the top of her glasses. Glaring. And not the least bit impressed.
“So this man, who was born and raised to be the epitome of dark, wants you, the hippie’s apprentice, whose entire existence is light and rainbows and good feelings. And despite all that, you don’t think together, you create balance?”
“He wants to fluff me!”
“So let him! It’s a burger, Emeri. It’s his way of seeing you before you head home, since he’s stuck working the bar and can’t very well leave it unmanned. Well,” I amend with a snicker, “except for when he does, like tonight, for instance. He’s not screwing with your yin or your yang by wanting to cook a meal for you. He’s just doing what he can to save his mental health because he loves you and wants to be near you. It’s not fluffing like how you fluff. It’s his only option, unless he wants to sell his bar and enjoy early retirement. Which,” I grumble, now that money is back in the forefront of my mind, “he could afford to do, since those guys are totally friggin’ loaded anyway.”
“What are you gonna do about the house on the hill?” And just like that, she swings our conversation to me while simultaneously clamping Naomi’s belly flaps open to reveal a baby inside its sac. So easily identifiable. Not fully formed yet. Not viable. But it has two legs. Two arms. Probably ten fingers and ten toes, which we’ll confirm soon for our final report. It has a face. Eyelashes. A button nose. And one little thumb perched between its lips.
Dammit.
“She’s a girl.” With a sad sigh, Aubree gently tilts the sac to get a clearer view of the top. “She was already head down and formed enough for us to know.”
“And now she’ll be with her mother forever. It’s a tragedy,” I concede with grief burrowing into my heart, “there’s no denying that. But if mother and baby must die, there must be comfort in knowing they went together, right?”
“I mean…” She eyeballs the baby to ascertain rough measurements. I don’t have to be inside her mind to know she’s cataloging. Weighing. Documenting. And soon, she’ll do it with tools and scales. “I’d find more comfort if they got to live and their attacker was hit by a car on their way to the crime scene today.” She releases the sac and brings her focus back up to mine. “So, the house on the hill? Which will henceforth be known as the Waterfalls .” She flashes a smile, a complete contrast to the devastation laid out between us. “Since it’s a mansion with its very own waterfall in the backyard. We have to name these things, ya know, so we don’t confuse this mansion with the one in New York that you also own now that you’re legally married to a Malone.”
“None of which I wish to think about right now.” I turn from the table and make a beeline for the sink. “Nothing in New York touches us. I refuse to let it occupy my mental space. And the house on the hill will simply sit there. Vacant. I’m not leaving my apartment any time soon. Which, luckily, Archer supports. For now, everything remains as is. And maybe in the future, at some point when the thought of mowing an acre of grass doesn’t make me break out in hives, I’ll consider moving to the big, stupid house with the waterfall. Which is dumb, by the way.” I slap the tap on and lather soap in my palms. “Why would I intentionally add a commute to my workday when living down here, just two blocks from my office, is way more convenient?”
“Something about trading a shoebox apartment for a mansion.” She peels her gloves off, then the plastic glasses as I scrub my hands. “It’s a whole ass house, Mayet. I could move in with you and you wouldn’t even notice I was there. ”
“You’re not moving in with me. Space is important.” I flip the tap off and grab paper towels. “Space is wonderful. We cannot work together and live together, Emeri. Our delicate friendship wouldn’t withstand that kind of pressure.”
“Delicate,” she snorts, then she looks down to her ankle, covered in flare-bottom jeans, and jiggles her leg to move the anklet I know is hidden beneath the denim. “There’s nothing delicate about us, Boss. But,” she brings her eyes up and raises her hands in a stop signal. “I agree, we could not live together. I like my apartment, and I especially like not knowing too much about your sex life.”
Unimpressed, I pointedly look at the recorder, documenting every single morsel of crap we speak.
“I’m gonna grab stomach contents,” she inserts, bringing us back to our work. And her, further away from punishment. “Blood as well. And hair. I’ll send it all down to the lab. Though, like you said, a horse is a horse and I doubt tox will reveal anything we don’t already know.”
“I’ll deal with the fetus, if you’d like.” I don’t miss the fact she’s yet to cut the sac open. Or lift it completely from Naomi’s body. The baby girl remains head down, tucked neatly inside the pubis, and Aubree… well, she took her gloves off for a reason. “I’ll get formal measurements and wrap her up. Naomi’s parents can elect how they’d like her presented for burial after the detectives have concluded their investigation.”
“Yeah.” She sniffles. It’s singular. Discreet. There are no tears in her eyes or boogers streaming from her nose. But some cases hit harder than others. And this one, the lost futures, seems to be the one messing with her. “Thanks,” she adds finally, turning to our table of instruments and perusing our selection of shears. “I’ll work on documenting Naomi’s heart, since ultimately, that’s where we’ll find cause of death.”
“We only need an hour. Two at the most.” I reach into Naomi’s body and gently cup the baby, drawing her and her amniotic sac up carefully. Soon, I’ll cut the bag open. Collect the fluids. Pull the placenta away from the wall of her womb and test that, too.
But for this moment in time, I simply study what would have been, in twenty more weeks, a brand-new baby girl. Her length—no more than six inches from top to tail—and her little legs, curled up to rest against her chest.
“I really hope this wasn’t some ploy by her boyfriend to escape responsibility,” I sigh, knowing I tap-dance across the line of impartiality and professionalism. Which is not something I ever did before moving to Copeland. “If he wanted to go to college and live the bachelor life. If he realized he didn’t want the family they were talking about. There are other, better ways to deal with this that don’t include murdering the woman you swore you loved.”