1
LEONORE
The dead never bothered me. It was the living who made a mess. It’s one of the reasons I chose this work. Above all things, I enjoy it. To the normal person, that sounds weird, but not to me. The music blasts through the speakers that I had installed when I took over this place more than four years ago. My assistant walks in with her noise-canceling headphones and her chocolate hair tied up in a bun on her head because she said she’s sensitive to sound, when in reality, Tori just hates my music. Her hands fold over one another as she stands on the opposite side of the stainless steel table. She looks at the body, chest split open, as I begin to stitch it up, humming to the music, in my happy place.
My music suddenly goes quiet as she presses a button and removes her headphones.
“Time of death?” she asks, her face slightly pale. She hates coming in here, but I pay her well. And despite how much she detests it here, or even working the night shift, she does it without fail. I went through two employees before finally landing on Tori. She has a smart mouth, which I appreciate and need,considering who I work for. Not only is she efficient but most importantly, she’s discreet.
“Two hours ago,” I tell her, looking over my handiwork so far. “Give or take.” I shrug.
She swallows hard, her gaze sweeping over the body again of a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties. “Give or take,” she repeats with a grim expression. I get it. For most people, looking down at a dead body is unsettling, but I’m the opposite. Each body that arrives in my morgue is like a new puzzle. “They’re waiting for you,” Tori says, visibly uncomfortable.
I sigh, annoyed that they’re already encroaching on my fun.
Tying off the final suture and wiping my hands, I peel off the gloves. Officially, the man lying on my table choked on his own blood during a robbery gone wrong. Unofficially, he was executed in the back seat of his car by someone who knew exactly where to aim.
After disposing of the gloves, I catch my reflection in the stainless steel bins as I walk out to where I know they’re waiting. My long, deep-plum hair is pulled back in a braid so it stays out of my way, and my scrubs are black, which is fitting, really. Glancing away, I push open the door to find four men in the receiving room, all dressed in black, guns hidden beneath their tailored jackets—the Hayes crew, the third strongest family in the city. I watch as Cian slides an envelope across the counter in greeting.
“You did good work,” he says with a smirk. Cian knows he’s attractive, and every time he comes in, he looks at me a little too long with rich brown eyes that are anything but kind.
Most women probably melt under attention like that. Maybe that’s why he does it, because he is used to people folding for him. But not me. His attention doesn’t make me nervous. It irritates me more than anything. The arrogance of it. The wayhe acts like every look is calculated, every word designed to chip away at me until I finally crack open for him.
“I know.” I don’t need him to tell me I do good work. When I don’t make a move to touch the money, he makes a point to lean his elbows on the counter so he is a little closer to me. I don’t back up. I stay exactly where I am. He always tries to unravel me, but it hasn’t worked yet.
His eyes flutter to the money, and he looks back at me.
“You don’t want it?” he asks.
Without a second thought, I open the drawer in front of me and slide the envelope inside without counting it.
He smirks. “You trust I gave you the right amount?” he asks as he pushes off the counter.
I don’t like Cian. He’s the kind of man who stares at himself in the window reflection a little too long. With his dark hair and custom suits, he looks like he should own the room when he walks in. But he doesn’t.
I don’t hide the contempt on my face.
Cian tips his head at me when I don’t answer. One thing I know for certain about men like Cian is that they like the chase and the game, so I simply don’t play. They’ll get bored trying soon enough.
A smile twitches at his lips, but he has the better sense to leave with his men. I watch them as they walk through the door and wait to see the headlights on the car disappear before I walk into the back room where Tori’s office is.
“They gone?” she asks, sitting on a metal stool, looking tired.
“Yes, and you should be too. Take off early. I can lock up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She doesn’t have to be told twice, so she reaches for her purse and leaves.
Walking back into the autopsy room, I start to cover the body.
The sheet is halfway raised when something shifts, barely perceptible at first. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just the faintest change in the room, like the air has thickened without warning.
My hand stills, but I don’t look up immediately. I wait, my head tilted, listening. The hum of the refrigeration unit. The distant drip of a tap that never quite shuts off properly. My own breathing, steady and controlled. I lower the sheet a fraction and let my eyes lift. The room feels colder now, though I can’t tell if it’s real or imagined. The hairs on my arms begin to rise, one by one, as if responding to some unseen force. Goosebumps spread across my skin.
Only then do I turn around.
A man is standing across the room from me, partially hidden by the shadows, his gaze trained on the body I am covering with the sheet.
It takes me a moment to recognize him.
