Page 80 of Taken Away

She zoomed in on Mabel’s face.

The skin was pale beneath the early settling of lividity, but when she tightened the resolution around the eyes, her expression hardened.

Tiny pinpoint dots scattered across the lower eyelids.

Petechiae.

Her clinical detachment sharpened.

Petechial hemorrhaging meant a violent spike in venous pressure. It happened when someone struggled to breathe.

Hangings.

Strangulations.

Smotherings.

She scrolled through the internal notes.

Kincaid had logged the airway as clear, but farther down, buried in the trace-evidence section, one line caught her eye:

Minor particulate contamination in upper nasal passages and posterior pharynx. Logged as airborne soot from bedroom fireplace.

She opened the microscopy attachment.

The magnified image filled the screen.

Not soot.

Bright blue-and-white synthetic fibers twisted together in a dense industrial weave, embedded deep in the mucosal lining of the throat, pulled inward by violent inhalation.

Vivian leaned closer, her glasses nearly touching the monitor.

Heart attacks don’t leave upholstery fibers in someone’s airway.

Her gaze flicked back to the external photographs.

There. On Mabel’s left wrist.

A faint semicircular compression mark, half-hidden beneath postmortem discoloration.

Not a fall injury.

Finger marks.

She sat back slowly, the quiet of the lab pressing in around her.

For several seconds she simply stared at the monitor.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.

Jackson County Sheriff’s Department

“Sheriff’s office,” the dispatcher answered.

“Put me through to Burke Scott,” Vivian said. “Tell him it’s Cade in Buncombe.”

A beat of silence, then, “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”