8. Gray
Chapter eight
Gray
Icollapse onto the edge of the bed, staring at the ridiculously bright white duvet like it’s offended me personally.
Ten hours of flights, layovers, and a taxi ride from hell—where the driver had the nerve to argue with me about the best route—have wrung me out
Beth’s in my hotel room now, perched at the desk, scrolling on her tablet
My mind keeps flicking to what the fuck I’m gonna see when we get there.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and pull up the number for the medical examiner’s office, tapping the screen and pressing it to my ear. Beth glances up, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything.
The line clicks, and a woman answers in a flat, businesslike tone. “Palm Shores Medical Examiner’s Office, how may I direct your call?”
“This is Grayson Hayes,” trying to sound more put together than I feel. “I’m calling to confirm arrangements for identifying...” I sigh. “Nicole Hayes’, my sister’s body. I was told to reach out when I got into town.”
There’s a pause on the other end, the faint clacking of a keyboard filling the silence. “Yes, Mr. Hayes. We have your information here. You’ll need to come to our office to complete the identification process. The address is 3420 Bayview Avenue. Do you have a pen handy?”
I glance at Beth, who holds up her tablet like it’s already recording. Efficient. At least one of us is functioning. “3420 Bayview Avenue,” I repeat to her.
“Got it,” I reply.
“Okay, Mr. Hayes,” the woman continues, her tone as neutral as a gray wall. “Our hours are 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., but for cases like this, we can accommodate you outside of those times. When would you like to come in?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaustion making my voice sharper than it needs to be. “Now?”
“Well, we’re supposed to shut in half an hour, but… we’ll stay open for you,” she replies.
“Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Understood. When you arrive, please let the front desk know you’re here for an identification. Bring a government-issued photo ID with you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that’s it.”
“Very well, Mr. Hayes. We’ll see you when you get here.”
The line clicks, and I drop the phone onto the bed beside me like it weighs a hundred pounds.
Beth clears her throat. “I’ll arrange an Uber.”
“Great,” I mutter, staring down at my hands. They’re trembling, so I clasp them together like that’ll stop it.
Five minutes pass in complete silence. I try to focus on anything but the suffocating weight on my chest, but it’s no use. Nicole’s face keeps flashing in my mind, followed by Maddie’s. Goddamn it.
Beth’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “The Uber’s going to be here in a few moments.”
“Come on then,” I say, pushing myself off the bed. My voice sounds distant, even to me.
She picks up her tablet from the desk, and I grab my phone, sliding it into my jacket pocket. We head out of the room, the soft click of the door behind us barely registering.
The hallway is quiet, with a long stretch of cream-colored carpet and tasteful modern art hanging on the walls. I barely notice it as we pass one identical door after another.
The Bay View Plaza is top-tier—sleek, polished, and pristine. Normally, I’d take a second to appreciate the understated luxury, but not today. Today, it feels like just another sterile box.
As we reach the elevator, one of them dings, and the doors slide open. A family spills out, all decked out in mismatched Hawaiian shirts, floppy hats, and shorts that shouldn’t exist outside a ‘90s sitcom. The dad’s holding a map, the mom’s got a fanny pack, and the kids are arguing over a soda.
Beth glances at me, raising an eyebrow, but doesn’t say a word. I step into the elevator, hitting the button for the lobby.
The ride down is quiet. I stare at the numbers ticking down and try not to feel like the walls are closing in.
When the doors open to the lobby, it’s bustling. Bellhops are wheeling luggage carts loaded with suitcases, a family is checking in at the front desk, and a couple in matching designer outfits is arguing.
We weave through the crowd, heading for the glass revolving doors at the entrance. A security guard by the door smiles at us—one of those polite, professional smiles that doesn’t mean a damn thing. I ignore him, step into the revolving door, and out into the heat.
The Florida air hits like a wall, thick and stifling even at 5:37 p.m. I tug at my tie, yanking it loose and rolling it up before stuffing it into my pocket. The last thing I need is a noose around my neck in this weather.
The sky’s a sharp, cloudless blue, the palm trees swaying slightly in the humid breeze. I spot the Uber pulling up to the curb—a generic black sedan with its hazard lights blinking.
Beth and I head down the steps toward it. The driver rolls down the window, leaning out with his phone in hand. “Hayes?”
“Yes,” I say curtly, opening the back door and sliding in. Beth follows, closing the door behind her.
The driver nods, puts his phone back in the holder, and pulls away from the curb. I lean back against the seat, staring out the window as we merge into traffic, my thoughts already racing ahead to when we get there.
Nicole. Maddie. Avery. Kat. It’s like some cruel merry-go-round in my head, each thought worse than the last. Maddie’s laugh, Nicole’s sarcasm, Kat’s smile, Avery’s voice from this morning. God, it’s a mess.
About half an hour into the drive, the sign for Bayview Avenue comes into view. The Uber turns onto it, the tires crunching faintly on the asphalt. A little way up the road, there it is: Palm Shores Medical Examiner’s Office.
The building is unassuming; beige with palm trees lining the parking lot like they’re trying to soften the blow of what happens inside.
The driver slows as we approach the security box at the entrance. The guard waves us through after a quick glance, and we pull into the lot. The car comes to a smooth stop near the entrance.
“Thank you,” Beth says politely, sliding out of the car.
I follow her, moving like my body’s on autopilot. My feet hit the ground, but my brain is stuck somewhere else, refusing to process the reality of what I’m about to do.
Beth glances at me, her tablet tucked under one arm. “You okay?”
I grunt something that vaguely sounds like “Yeah,” but I’m not fooling her.
We walk to the entrance, the automatic doors hissing open. The air inside is overly cool, the kind that bites at your skin after being outside in the Florida heat.
A receptionist sits behind a wide counter, her name badge reading “Angela.” She looks up as we approach, her smile is professional but sympathetic. “Good evening. How can I help you?”
Beth steps forward, her voice steady. “We’re here to identify Nicole Hayes.”
Angela’s face softens as she nods. “Of course. Let me get someone to assist you. Please have a seat.”
Beth and I move to the small waiting area. Plastic chairs, gray walls, a table with a few outdated magazines—it’s all so sterile, so impersonal.
I stare at the floor, fists clenched on my knees, trying to keep it together. Every muscle in my body is taut, like if I let go for even a second, I’ll break.
“Mr. Hayes?”
I look up to see a man in a white coat standing near the counter. His nametag says, “Dr. Morgan.”
“That’s me,” I say, my voice rough.
He steps forward; his hands clasped in front of him. “I’ll be guiding you through the identification process. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Beth nudges me gently, and we stand. I follow Dr. Morgan down a quiet hallway, each step echoing faintly.
We stop at a door with a small sign: “Viewing Room”. My stomach twists into a knot so tight I can barely breathe.
Dr. Morgan opens the door, holding it for us. Inside, the room is small and cold, with a single gurney in the center. A white sheet covers the body, but the face is visible.
Nicole.
My knees almost give out.
Dr. Morgan speaks quietly. “Take your time. When you’re ready, just confirm her identity.”
Beth stands by the door, her face pale but composed. I take a step forward, my legs heavy like lead.
I force myself to look. Her face is pale, lifeless, but unmistakably hers. The sister I grew up with. The one who always had a quick comeback, who loved her daughter Maddie more than anything, who was always there—except now, she isn’t.
“It’s her,” I manage, my voice cracking. “It’s Nicole.”
Dr. Morgan nods solemnly. “I’m very sorry for your loss. We’ll prepare the necessary paperwork and guide you through the next steps.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat is tight, and my chest feels like it’s caving in.
Beth places a hand on my arm, grounding me just enough to keep me upright.
Dr. Morgan steps out, leaving us alone. I stand there for a moment, staring at Nicole, trying to reconcile the person she was with what’s in front of me now.
“I’ll take care of Maddie,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. “I promise.”
Beth squeezes my arm lightly, her voice soft. “You will. She’s lucky to have you.”
I nod, swallowing hard, and turn away. Leaving the room feels like abandoning her all over again, but I know I have to. There’s still so much to do.
***
The next day is a blur. Forms. Phone calls. More forms. Every conversation feels like it’s happening underwater, muffled and distorted, while I’m drowning in the undertow.
Beth and I work like a machine—cold, efficient—liaising with the funeral home in Florida, and coordinating with the one back in Westhaven.
By the time we have the arrangements set—the transport, the service, the burial—I’m so drained I don’t even know how I’m still standing.
The funeral is set for the day after tomorrow. That’s the easy part. The hard part? Telling Maddie.
Now, after hours in the air and a layover, I’d rather erase from my memory, I’m sitting in the back of a taxi. Portland International Airport is behind us, and the familiar roads of Westhaven stretch out ahead.
The sun’s sinking low across the town I’ve called home for so many years. It feels foreign right now.