Chapter 3 #3
It must have been slow, I realize, when I feel no sign of a broken neck. He suffocated, which explains the burst blood veins in his eyes and the wounded tip of his tongue—
I pause as I hold his jaw open with one hand, frowning at his tongue where teeth had definitely sunk into the pink, soft flesh hard enough to cause injury. There’s all but a chunk missing, and the longer I stare at it, the stronger my feelings of wrongness become.
The lightning and thunder don’t help. Nor does the remix of “Monster Mash” playing in my ears. But I prop his jaw open and grab a small light to look closer at the bite, just based on my instinct that something about this isn’t correct.
Finally it hits, and I can’t help but wonder how the hell Jenkins didn’t notice this. Though I suppose he may not have looked in his mouth at all. Jenkins isn’t exactly known for being thorough, and that’s probably why he’d never managed to work anywhere that has actual crime to solve.
He couldn’t solve his way out of a fucking paper bag.
Absently, I realize my meds must be working well tonight, because Andrew doesn’t pop up to give his commentary, nor does anyone else swimming around in my head. I’m able to work on him without interruption, though I keep going back to the bite on his tongue.
It’s off, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.
Nothing else about him is off, other than the silk boxers. But I never knew him. Maybe he always wore fancy silk, even on the night he killed himself.
It’s not until I’m shoving the trocar into his abdomen—a particularly brutal-looking part of the job that I’m glad loved ones never see—when I decide there really is something strange about the bite on his tongue.
I finish first, but then I go back to pry his mouth open once more, covering the bottom half of his body with a sheet like it matters.
But it matters to me. And I can’t help that.
Peeling back his lips, I grab his tongue with a pair of small tongs, pulling it out so I can look at the underside too. There’s a bite mark there as well, matching in its intensity and lining up with the one on top.
“Hang on a sec…” I breathe to myself. “Hang on, hang on, hang on…” I fiddle around until I can find a measuring tool, and finally I set it against the bite, trying to look for the most minute details and figure out why this bothers me so much.
When it clicks, I jerk back; causing the tongs to clatter to the table beside Andrew’s shoulder. But I pick them up to check again, peering close to make sure I’m not going crazy.
But I’m not.
Why didn’t Jenkins look in his mouth? Or if he did, did he really not notice this? I suppose he could’ve thought it was self-inflicted, like I initially did, but now that I’ve spent so much time staring at it, I know that’s not the case.
“Are you sure about this?” The voice sounds a lot like mine, though it’s in my ears instead of my head.
“Not tonight.” There’s a finality in my tone that sounds harsh.
Though if I’m being honest, I know I’m just talking to myself, even when my brain tries to convince me I have guests.
“Not you. Not here, not now. I can’t fucking focus when you’re here.
” My words are soft, and they end with uncertainty, instead of sounding like a threat.
But something in my head lightens, and I know when I turn around, I won’t see her hovering over the table.
Not tonight.
That’s all I ask of her.
With shaky hands, I tap my phone screen, scrolling through contacts until I find the sheriff’s.
Never before would I have had the sheriff’s number saved as a contact, but Cecil insisted on it before leaving on his trip.
Just in case, he said, even though I assured him over and over there was no case in which I could need the sheriff on speed dial.
…But here I am, I think ruefully, and tap her name then the phone icon.
It rings once, then twice. Finally, on the fourth ring, when I’ve started to wonder if she’s asleep or not about to pick up a number she doesn’t know, Sheriff Adele Miller picks up with a quick, baffled-sounding, “Hello?”
“Hey, Sheriff Miller? I am so, so sorry. This is Nell—Eleanor—at Kindred Pines. You know, I’m—”
“Yeah, Nell. I know who you are.” Her tone gentled slightly at the familiarity of my voice. “Did Andrew’s body get there okay?”
I glance back at the table where the dead Andrew lies, lids shut over the eye caps and his mouth still hanging open how I left it. “Yeah, it uh, it got here okay,” I whispered. “But I think you should come down here. Please?”
God, I hope I’m not wrong about this. Or, I sort of hope I am. That would be the easier option.
“Come down there?” Adele repeats. “Why? What’s wrong, Nell?”
There’s no easy way to say it.
“Because I don’t think Andrew was alone when he died,” I say slowly. Carefully. “And I think maybe it’s something you should look into. Please?”
She hesitates. For a few, awful seconds, I think she’s going to laugh or tell me to fuck right off.
But when Adele answers, her tone is all business. “I’ll be there in twenty. With Jenkins. Don’t go anywhere, Nell.” And with that she hangs up, leaving me to wonder where the hell I would even go right now.