Page 102 of The Turning of the Tables

My phone started ringing again. Maginot, a second time.

“I really don’t think so,” I told him, grabbing the phone with my other hand and awkwardly sliding the little green circle. “Mays,” I said into it.

“I need your nose, Mays,” Maginot said. “Because I havea viable suspect, and I need to confirm that chemical on our last vic.”

“I’ll do it first thing when I get in,” I told him. I didn’t have to be at work until nine, and it was currently just past six.

“I need it sooner,” Maginot informed me. “Meet me at the coroner’s ASAP.”

“Okay,” I replied, wincing and swallowing back a hiss as Noah crouched down beside me with rubbing alcohol to clean out my newest wound. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“The hell you will,” Noah chided as soon as I hung up the phone.

“I have to, Nono,” I replied, and I knew I sounded as pathetic as I felt.

“Like hell!” he argued, color high in his cheeks, hands on his hips.

“Noah, please,” I all-but-begged. “I need to go in, so please just help me.”

He blew out a breath, his chest heaving a little with the sigh. “Iamtrying to help you, even though you clearly won’t help yourself,” he argued.

“I don’t want to lose this job, Noah,” I argued. “I get that I should be resting or eating or whatever, but to keep this job, I have to go to work. SoI have to go to work.” I paused, bit my lower lip, then winced, because I was emotional, which meant that my teeth were currently a lot sharper than they should have been and I’d just drawn blood in my own mouth. “Besides, they might be able to catch the killer if I do this.”

Noah blew out another breath, then rubbed at one of the long scars on his chest, something he only did when he was really agitated. “Fine,” he said, finally. “But I’m driving you, then I’m coming back at lunchtime and making sureyou eat properly, and then I’m coming back after exactly eight hours and taking you home.”

“Okay,” I agreed, because I would have agreed to pretty much anything to get him to take me. Even if I wasn’t actually going to get to leave at three in the afternoon. I’d have that argument with Noah later—either over lunch or by text.

I dressed as fast as I dared, clenching my teeth. Noah watched me, his arms crossed over his slim chest, for a few minutes, clearly unhappy, but then went to get dressed so that he could drive.

I confirmedthat chlorhexidine was in fact what I’d smelled, sniffing both the victim—who was still unidentified—and a clean sample Maginot had brought with him. This time, with a nose that wasn’t congested and burned out, I was certain they were the same thing.

Maginot rubbed his hands together. “Good. Very good.”

Both Cindy Browne, the assistant ME who was scrambling to cover Tierney’s cases as well as her own, and I shared a glance. Browne was the acting ME now that Tierney had been forced—according to Quincy—into actual retirement by the combination of lingering Arcana symptoms and the severity of his physical injuries from the explosion. He would recover, eventually, but he was still in a rehab facility, undergoing intensive daily physical therapy.

Once he got to go home, Quincy and I were planning to go visit him, but that was weeks away yet. Assuming I didn’t accidentally turn feral and maim somebody.

That possibility was a source of constant anxiety, made worse today by my nighttime shift. I also suspected that a lotof Noah’s worry about me had more to do with my lack of control over myself—and my body—than the fact that I wasn’t eating enough or that I was still tired.

“All of our known victims went through the surgical center at St. Mary’s,” Maginot remarked. “Different doctors, different surgeries, but all of them scheduled in the same center.”

“Huh,” Browne commented, a small furrow appearing between her dark brows. Behind her thick glasses, brown eyes were thoughtful. “And we didn’t notice that before?”

Maginot shook his head. “Without the hint that this might have been related to a surgical or medical complex, we wouldn’t have thought to check,” he replied, almost cheerful despite the cool temperatures and sanitized tile of the morgue. “Because none of them shared the same doctor or ailment—a knee surgery, a hip, a torn wrist tendon, and so on. The fact that multiple offices go through the same surgical center actually made tracing the connection much harder, since they’d have scheduled through the offices, not the center.” He smiled—or something like it—the corners of his eyes crinkling. “They all came in, took their test, and then were sent home again because of a positive Arcana test. The surgical center wouldn’t have a specific date for them to reschedule, they’d just wait for the patient’s office to call in… or not.”

“That,” I said, “and they would have had to list who was driving them and their relationship—so choosing people who listed friends, rather than spouses.”

Maginot’s eyes crinkled again. “Precisely,” he said, sounding pleased.

“Do you know who it is?” Browne asked, her latte-toned forehead furrowed.

This time, Maginot’s expression was a frown. “Not yet,” he replied. “But now I know where to look.”

Noah broughtlunch for both me and Quincy, stopping to pick up fried chicken sandwiches from Buttermilk and Honey. He’d gotten three each for me and himself, plus one for Quincy, as well as copious quantities of fries and sauces to dip them in.

“God, this is good,” Quincy spoke around a mouthful of her sandwich, a little ranch dressing—which mine did not have—staining the corner of her mouth.

Noah grinned at her. “Right?” It was one of his favorite places. They fried good chicken—Noah liked it because pretty much everything normally came with bacon, and Noah is a bacon fiend. We used to make bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches, bacon and cheese omelets, BTLs… We still did a lot of that with turkey bacon, but it wasn’t quite the same, and I would sometimes make a point of getting real bacon for Noah when I was feeling guilty or for a special occasion.