Page 95

“Whatcha got?” Fletcher called down.

Flashlights swung up toward us. Michael Rankin, in turnout pants and a Jasper Creek Fire T-shirt, shaded his eyes and hollered back.

“Only one occupant,” he shouted. “Driver. No pulse. No respirations. He’s gone.”

Dammit.

“Young?” Fletcher called.

“Young man,” Rankin confirmed. “Twenties, maybe. Haven’t checked for ID. We’ll send him up to you once we get him secured.”

I stepped back as the crew below worked. Voices floated up, low and professional—commands, confirmations, the clank of metal as they maneuvered the Stokes basket into place.

“Coming up!” someone yelled.

Ropes appeared over the edge, then the orange rescue basket, sheet-covered form strapped inside. The winch on the engine whined as they powered it up. Firefighters guided it carefully over the guardrail and onto the asphalt.

Everyone went quiet for a beat, the way we always did with the dead. Helmets off, for some. Heads bowed, for others. Respect didn’t cost anything, but it meant everything.

The sheet was clean, no blood seeping through. If there were injuries, they were contained.

“We’ll take him from here,” Fletcher said softly.

Rankin nodded. “Coroner’s tied up on another scene,” he said. “Dispatch wants you to transport to the county morgue. We’ve got photos of the scene and the vehicle for the report.”

“Got it,” I said.

Fletcher and I each took a side of the basket and transferred the body carefully to our stretcher. The weight was average—young male, tall.

My hand hovered at the edge of the sheet.

I didn’t have to look. I could sign the transport, log the time, do the job. Name would come later, from a license or a family member. I could pretend the Alabama plate meant nothing to me. That I was making connections out of thin air. I could let myself breathe for a few more hours.

Instead, I pinched the corner of the sheet and peeled it back.

The kid’s face was pale in the scene light. Blood matted his hair at the temple, a bruise blossomed along one jawline, lips parted slightly, one of them cut…black eye. I remembered that shot he took to the eye. His neck lay at an angle that said the coroner’s report would read “massive cervical trauma.”

Tyler.

My vision tunneled for a second. The sounds around me muffled.

Jesus.

He was supposed to be in a hospital getting care, or better yet, with Emily celebrating the knowledge of finding out they were having either a boy or a girl. My chest hurt. I shoved it down. Grief was a luxury. Grief got compartmentalized. That was the deal. I’d made it with myself a long time ago.

Later, I promised the part of me that wanted to sit down on the asphalt and put my head in my hands. Later you can feel this. Right now, you work.

Fuck!

Something gnawed at me, I didn’t know what, then I pulled the sheet back so I could see everything.

“What are you doing?” Fletcher demanded to know. I ignored him.

Tyler wasn’t wearing the hoodie I’d last seen him in. He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt.

The buttons didn’t line up right—off by one, fabric skewed so the hem sat crooked on his hips. His boots were on the right feet, but loosely tied, laces uneven.

A kid who called people “sir” without thinking?