11
ANSON
“Oh, Jesus!” Vincent jumped back.
The man’s body stiffened. His back arched. Blood and spittle foamed from his lips.
I raised the scalpel more on instinct than anything else, was ready to drive it into his chest, when the man fell back to the table and went still.
Dead.
Vincent stumbled backward. “Holy fucking shit! Did you see that!? Holy—”
Behind us came a sharp scream, not from Paul, but—
She moved fast.
I was still turning when she shot out from one of the lower cabinets, a scalpel of her own held in an overhand grasp, blood still dripping from the blade.
She slashed out at Paul as she ran toward us.
How he dodged it, I had no idea, but he managed to sidestep, and that was just enough to throw off her balance.
She launched at Vincent, coming off her right foot at the wrong angle.
Vincent spun to the side and grabbed her mid-flight.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind in an awkward bear hug, pinning her arms. She tried to reach him with the scalpel but couldn’t.
Both her legs lifted from the ground, kicked, flailed.
Vincent squeezed her tighter. “Twill! It’s me, Vincent! Vincent from Finicky’s! Stop! STOP!”
When it registered, when a blip of recognition crossed her red, angry face, her body went limp.
She became a rag doll in his grasp. Although her feet went back to the floor, had he released her in that moment, she surely would have dropped.
Her breathing hitched. Tangles of matted blonde hair covered most of her face. “Vinny?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I got you,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”
Behind them, Paul was bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. He looked like he might throw up. He glanced up at the rest of us, held up a single finger, and muttered, “I’m okay. All good here.”
When Twill put weight on her legs and looked up, Vincent slowly released her. He stepped around and faced her, brushed the hair from her eyes with both thumbs, then lifted what was left of her loose braid and dropped it behind her shoulder. “There you are.”
When she looked back at him, there was something in that exchanged look. Silent words. Something that made me think they knew each other far more than he had initially let on. For a brief second, I thought I saw fear on Vincent’s face.
When her gaze finally broke from his, she looked right past me, like I wasn’t there, and glared at the dead man. “He was going to hurt Emily. Make her disappear.”
Vincent frowned and let her go. He took a step back, putting some distance between them. “Emily?”
Twill pointed at the drawer in the bottom right corner. “She’s in there.”
I glanced at Vincent, then went to the drawer and pulled it open.
No sheet this time.
Another girl.
Young. Maybe fourteen. Fifteen at best.
She’d been dead for several days. Maybe a week.
Dotted lines had been drawn from her shoulders to the center of her chest, where they met in a single line that continued down to her pubic bone. Father had an illustrated medical text, and we had reviewed the section on autopsies many times. I knew what a Y incision looked like.
I glanced back at the man Twill had killed. She’d stumbled into the medical examiner about to open up this girl.
“Whoa.” Paul stepped up to get a better look. “She’s naked.”
“She’s dead, you sick fuck,” Vincent shot back.
Twill’s face twisted and grew red. “Cover her back up.”
I was studying Emily’s neck. I didn’t look up.
Instead, I peeled one of her eyes open, looked for burst vessels in the haze, and found none.
“What killed her? She has no bruising. No visible wounds.” I pried her mouth open with my thumb and index finger, and although the lighting wasn’t the best, I could see the back of her throat.
“I don’t think she was poisoned, either. I’m not sure how she died.”
“It will be on the back of her head. You didn’t look there.”
You didn’t, did you, Champ? What have I told you about rushing to conclusions?
I gently turned her head with my good hand.
At first, I didn’t see it. The wound was so small—a hole no more than a quarter inch in diameter near the base of her skull.
I imagined someone making her kneel. Pressing a gun to the back of her head.
Small caliber, had to be, but . . . no, that didn’t make sense, because even a small caliber would have muzzle flash. There’d be burn marks, and I saw none.
“Cover her back up.” Twill stepped closer, raising her bloody scalpel. “Now.”
I was still holding a scalpel too, and I raised it defensively.
The two of us probably looked like we were about to have a miniature sword fight, and the thought of that nearly made me laugh, but I managed to swallow it back down because that would certainly antagonize this girl, and she didn’t seem like the kind of person I wanted to antagonize.
She reminded me of Mother in that way. A bomb with a hair trigger, moments from detonation.
I lowered my scalpel and replaced the sheet.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I didn’t mean to upset you. ”
She sneered like she’d smelled something rotten. “Who the fuck is this, Vinny?”
“Anson Bishop. He was at Finicky’s after . . . after you. Christ, they told us you died, Twill.”
“I didn’t.” She shoved a folded piece of paper in her pocket.
He jerked a thumb back at Paul. “You already know him.”
She didn’t bother to look at him. “Wish I didn’t.”
“Missed you too,” Paul said.
The robotic female voice rang out again. “Security personnel, code yellow. Code yellow, level two.”
Vincent eyed the overhead speaker for a second. “We need to get out of here.”
“They know what I’m wearing.” Twill looked me up and down. “What did you wear in here? Where are your clothes?”
I nodded at the bag tied to the wheelchair. “In there.”
“Give me your gown.” She began peeling off her clothes.
That’s when the security lock on the morgue’s door beeped and the light blinked from red to green.