Minka
MINKA
T here are some people on this planet who don’t deserve to be here.
I know it’s not up to me to decide who. I know it’s wrong for me to declare my verdict and end a life, no matter the stacks of evidence I gather before making a move. And it sure as hell makes it hypocritical for me to sit on my high horse and condemn someone else for doing the same.
But there’s a difference between ending an evil man’s reign—when his victims are children and his targets are innocent—and killing your big sister, because you want her clothes, her room, her boyfriend, and the life you think came sooooo easily to her.
Siblings fight, of course. It’s natural. And younger sisters often want things they didn’t necessarily earn.
But to kill for it… that’s not helping society. Ending a life and removing a perceived threat… that’s not making anyone safe. It’s not protecting the innocent.
It’s vain and shallow, nothing more.
And now a man, a boy really, stands over his beloved, sobbing until his tears soak her sheets and his eyes swell almost completely shut.
“It’s so tragic,” Aubs sniffles, perching on the edge of a stainless-steel counter and discreetly swiping beneath her nose to rid the evidence of emotion on the job. We rarely cry for our patients. We don’t even get misty eyed when survivors visit those they’ve lost.
But a young mom, killed for no reason except jealousy and spite, and a man whose entire life has been lost… those are reasons to grieve.
“It’s not often you meet your soulmate when you’re six years old,” she whispers. We can’t leave Mason here alone with Naomi and the unnamed fetus, even if privacy should be the least expected under the circumstances. This is still a homicide investigation, after all. The bodies, still evidence in that case.
We can’t leave. But we can stay back. We can be quiet, respectful, and for the most part, out of sight.
“What do you even do with your life when you lose your love at eighteen?” she questions. “Do you just curl into a ball in the corner and cease to exist?”
“Does he have nothing else to live for? Not his sport? Not his family? Not even to create a legacy for his fiancée and daughter?”
“I mean…” She quietly clears her throat. “I don’t know. Eighteen is so young. He still has eighty years ahead of him. So it leads to the assumption he’ll move on. Meet someone new. Maybe have a family with her, someday. But I’m not sure he can see that as a future just yet.” Curious, she plants her hands on the steel counter on either side of her thighs and looks across to meet my eyes. “What if you lost Archer?”
Ouch .
I bring a hand up and gently press it to my heart, soothing the ache she so easily put there with a simple, hypothetical question.
“You and Malone are older than Mason and Naomi, but really, you haven’t had as long as they had. What if, in eleven years, something happens and you lose him? Will you remarry? Move on?”
“No.” Swallowing, I drag my focus back around to a heartbroken teen boy with eighty years of loneliness laid out ahead of him. “I wouldn’t move on. Are you telling me you’ll continue to avoid Tim, even though you love him and he loves you? He’s right there, and your future is waiting to start. But nothing happens until you get on board. If you lose him, in ten years, maybe twenty, will you wish you’d started sooner, so you could absorb as much time as possible?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs, her pink streaked blonde hair moving with the shift of her shoulders. “I’ve gotten so used to telling him no, I’m not sure how to change my mind and say something else.”
I snort. It’s almost completely silent, because Mason deserves better. But I lean to the side and bump her shoulder with mine. “Take your clothes off and wait in his bed at the end of shift tonight. I reckon that’s a clear enough message without having to swallow your pride or say anything at all. Then give the guy grace when he blows in his shorts because, ya know, tensions and waiting and dreams coming true and all that mess.”
“God.” Her cheeks flame bright red and her eyes drop to her lap. “That’s a whole other discussion for another day. Neither of us are ready for that yet.”
“Mmhm.”
“Chief Mayet?” Fifi pokes her head through the massive glass door, clearing her throat and speaking quietly enough not to alert Mason to another person in the room. Her makeup is perfect. Her hair, magazine chic, like always. She wears flawless red lipstick to give her face that focal point.
But still, my attention jumps to her eyes. Because they’re uncharacteristically dark. Flat. Dare I say, void of all emotion.
“Can I speak with you, Chief?” She looks at Aubree, acknowledging her presence, then she casts her eyes to the bodies—two of them—laid out for a boy who will never truly heal from this. “It’s, uh…” She clears her throat and brings her focus back to me. “It’s important.”
“Sure.” I inch off the counter and touch down on cold feet, gritting my teeth as blood flows once more, and pins and needles prickle all the way up my calves. But before I walk away, I murmur for Aubs, “You have to stay. Keep an eye on them. He can’t pick up the fetus. And if he gets carried away in his grief, you’ll have to call security. If he tries to move them, that’s an issue.”
“I’ve got it.” She looks at Fifi, lifting her chin in greeting. “You’ve been quiet lately. You didn’t even scream at me for spamming your email with memes today.”
Uninterested in a back and forth, Fifi clamps her lips shut and takes a step back, forcing me to catch the swinging door with my hands… or my face.
Intrigued, I push through the heavy glass door, crossing the threshold from a room that is effectively entirely a fridge, and moving instead into a comfortable seventy-three degrees and the pointed stare of a woman who kind of scares me.
She wears a dark navy pencil skirt and a silky, opal-colored blouse, so her mahogany hair stands out in beautiful contrast. Unfortunately, I don’t get the chance to catalog much more, nor do I get to enjoy the warmer temperature as my body slowly thaws. Because Fifi thrusts an envelope into the gap between us, not completely different than the one Sophia had delivered to the police station earlier today.
Curious, I reach out and take it, studying the front, void of anything except a simple Chief Medical Examiner Mayet penned in neat, black handwriting.
“What is this?” I flip the envelope over and slowly break the seal. “Results for a case, or…?”
“It’s my resignation letter.”
Stunned, I stop tearing and bring my gaze up instead until I meet a pair of willow green eyes, brimming with what can only be described as determination. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I’ve accepted a position somewhere else.” She dips her chin, part apology, part shame. “I think it’s time I move on, Chief.”
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