Page 59 of Miserable Marionette

I should be pouring over my transcripts, the ones I didn’t report, ensuring everything was solid and in place, but instead I sat holding the hand of a grieving mother, guiding her gently through all the steps that came before he was laid to the ground. All the while her daughter scoffing and scowling, sniffling until she’d run from the office in tears.

It’s a shame there wasn’t a way to kill her at the same time I had her brother.

Judging by the exhausted slump of her mother’s shoulders and the defeated way she barely reacted to the outburst, she might not have minded. I gave her hand a comforting squeeze and assured her I would check on her daughter. I’d barely made it out the front door when my eyes caught a tuft of blonde curls sitting on the porch. Audrey had risen to half a stand then froze there, watching as her friend crumble to the driveway sobbing. She’d come outside to watch it all play out; that sent a pointily warm sinking feeling to my gut. I wanted nothing more than to cross the road and stand in her presence. It was hard to assume any other roles than Audrey Fisher’s best friend when she was around, but I lowered myself beside Jessica, my hand barely reaching her shoulder, before she all but flung herself away, calling me a freak cunt and starting off down the road.

Lovely girl.

I can’t wait to hold her mother’s hand while she grieves her.

I might have given a thought not to kill the remaining Jordan sibling before it became apparent she’d put her hands where they didn’t belong too.

It had been well past two a.m. when I’d completed the obituary that would run in the paper the next morning. Memorializing the washed-up high school quarterback who had never accomplished anything save for exactly that. My wording was flowery and nice, stoic and reverent, like the arrangements that had been delivered this morning.

The smell of formaldehyde is heavy in the air as I make another pass of my brush, blending pigment on stiff flesh, my mind far from the task at hand. It’s muscle memory at this point; my eyes flick toward the picture taped to my cart and back to Bryan Jordan mindlessly.

It would seem I made my first mistake. It was Audrey’s birthday two years ago. The girl was unremarkable in every way when I took her home from the bar. I’d grown agitated halfway through installing the bone pins, ripping them straight from the bone while we both screamed. Her in agony, me in… perhaps my own kind of agony. One of the screws had broken off deep inside her navicular bone; the fucking intern had seen it before I could sign off.

Half a screw, a grieving family, and a headstrong Martin Altman, and the body was fucking exhumed for a second autopsy. How he managed to get a judge to sign off on that, I have no idea, but the point is, I left evidence behind. Evidence can be tracked.

I hadn’t logged the screw.

I could write it off as sloppy work, had that been something I was known for.

He’d already spoken to the intern. The guy hadn’t lasted a week before a bloated gunshot wound to the head that had baked in his truck for a few days had made him vomit. He never showed up for his next shift. But he’d seen the screw.

Altman petitioned to exhume the rest, based on one screw. Came all this way to what? Rub it in my face, gauge my reaction? Being the kind man he is, naturally he offered his help to the local PD while he was up here. Only there’s no good reason to stay.

Of course, he wanted the judge to know they were working with the local ME’s office and not against us, hence the excuse for a tax-funded thirty-three-hour trip here to find the original examiner whom he has pointedly butted heads with since he was assigned the case. So far, the judge hasn’t signed off. For once, I’m grateful for red tape and politics.

“Gideon?”

And just like that, nothing matters but that soft, sweet voice. The girl who has no idea she’s wielding against me.

“I’ll be right up!” I answer back, making a few more passes and jerking my gloves off at record pace, all but sprinting up the stairs, slowing only when I’m in view.

Her blonde hair is thrown up into a sloppy bun high on her head. Her pretty hazel eyes are glued to her hands. It's everything I have to linger in the doorway of the stairs, realizing only belatedly I’m still in my apron smeared with cosmetics and fluid. It takes a few seconds of pointed silence for her to speak, but I’m happy to wait. Anything for Audrey.

“I was hoping, well—" She takes a deep breath. “My dad’s truck still won’t start. I need to go into town. I mean, I can call someone else, but I was hoping for a ride.” She looks up then, finally daring to take me in, my hair ungroomed, apron covered in many variants of filth and smelling distinctly chemical. Her eyes widen, her face going a little pale.

It’s cute.

What’s not cute is that I can’t take her.

“Why do you need to go to town? Mrs. Johnson—"

“No, it’s not for work. I need to grab some, you know… I…” She sighs and my entire body goes rigid, desperate to run my fingers through her hair, to force her hazel eyes on me and stroke her until she spits it out. “I feel awful Gideon, for Jess and her mom. I’ve barely slept.”

Because you aren’t wrapped in my arms, puppet.

I could fix that.

I don’t say that, though. I don’t say anything because she still hasn’t answered my question.

She knows it, fiddling with the thin belt poking out from under her sweater. “I want to get them some flowers.”

“Audrey—"

“It’s a lot to ask. I just… the guilt is eating me up inside. I mean yeah, he was awf—" Her eyes dart to the door behind me. “Er, not the kindest, but that’s not their fault. Well, I mean, I think Jess hates me now too, but that’s… I can at least, you know, get their mom some flowers. I want to. It’s just a long walk, but I know you’re busy. I’m sorry, I’ve been stewing all night. I think—"