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The soft thud of footsteps echos from the hallway beyond the swing doors, and I pull my clipboard to my chest, as if I can somehow hide behind it. I despise this feeling more than anything; I never used to be so fearful.
The doors swing in and Detective Carson enters, all business and cocky smiles. At least he doesn’t tiptoe around me. I can say that for him. Carson’s arrogance rubs most of the other detectives the wrong way, but his selfishness is refreshing. He’s too invested in his own self-importance to bother treating me like a fragile victim.
“Hey, Avery. You got an update on our vic yet?”
No phony pleasantries. No inquiry on my day, or my health. No regard for my mental state whatsoever. Just right to business.
With a curt nod, I pry the clipboard away from my chest and give it my full attention. “Marcy Beloff. Twenty-five. Single. Lived in Arlington for a year—”
“Sounds like a personal ad,” Carson interrupts.
And then there’s that. My eyes flick up and pin him with a glare. He clears his throat and rocks back on his heels, sinking his hands into his slack pockets. “Sorry,” he says. “Too soon?”
With a heavy exhale, I relax my shoulders. “No. I’m just a little on edge today. It’s fine. Make all the jokes you want at the victim’s expense.”
My slight doesn’t faze him, and he nods as I look back down at the report.
I continue going over the victim’s basic information, content that Carson has no interest in prying into my personal affairs. He just assumes—as everyone does—that my on edge remark is due to my being here, in the lab where I was abducted. Not to mention having been bound and tortured. Possibly even raped…though no one has outright asked.
And yes, I’m still feeling quite on edge for all those reasons, but today, it’s a little worse. Because Quinn was a witness to my appalling behavior last night. I’ve been waiting for him to make an appearance all morning to inquire about the vic—just waiting to see his downturned mouth, the sad, weighty slope of his shoulders, the judgment in his hazel eyes as they refuse to meet mine.
I don’t know why it should bother me what Quinn thinks, but it does. I actually don’t care if the whole department—Carson included—gossips behind my back. Speculating about how it’s perfectly normal for someone who just suffered a traumatic event to act out in a completely abnormal way. How do they even know it’s abnormal?
Maybe I’ve always drank myself into a blackout and digested concentrated aphrodisiacs. What if I’ve always had issues getting sexually aroused and needed to get pass-the-fuck-out drunk in order to let loose and have some fun? They don’t know me. Not on that level.
My internal rant stops abruptly as Carson says, “Jesus, Avery. You all right?” He steps around the slab to stand beside me. “You look pale. We can do this later—”
“I’m fine. Just tired.” I attempt a smile, but I can feel how awkward it is on my wobbly lips. Out of habit that is of late, I cover my mouth with my hand. “Let’s just get through this.”
“All right. Your call.” He gives me another close inspection, his head tilted in that concerned way, before he aims his gaze on the vic.
The fact that I’m so out of sorts that I triggered Carson’s notice isn’t good. To anyone else, it’s probably more than obvious that I’m way off my game. I should’ve called in sick, but Avery Johnson—the Avery Johnson before the abduction—does not take sick days. I need to focus on work. I just have to push through it until it all clicks back into place.
It has to.
Blowing out a long breath, I pull it together. “Despite the numerous contusions and lacerations covering her face and body, COD was exsanguination due to a puncture in her abdomen that resulted in liver damage.” I set the clipboard down and slip on a pair of gloves. “PAT—”
“What’s that?” Carson interrupts.
“Penetrating abdominal trauma,” I say as I peel back the white sheet to display the injury. “Sharp force trauma on the left side of her abdomen. The object was small and thin.”
“A knife?”
I shake my head. “Hard to say. Possibly. It’s obvious that she was attacked. Bruising to her forearms suggests defensive wounds. The contusion below her right eye was in the stages of healing. She’d sustained a battering a few times over.” I swallow past the bile rising to my throat.
“I swabbed the wound and sent it out for analysis,” I continue. “And I’m running a tox screen to cover all the bases. Waiting on results now.”
Carson nods. “It’s possible the person delivering the punches is someone different than the perp who inflicted the killing blow. Any way you can distinguish the difference between her defensive wounds and the antemortem bruising?”
Damn. How did I not think of that? I look up at Carson and frown. “Yes. I’ll get a complete workup on that next.” Glancing down at the vic, I tilt my head. “She suffered a slow and painful death. Her injury could’ve easily been treated.”
A low hum fills the lab as silence builds. Then: “How long did she suffer?”
“A week…maybe longer. The darkened skin along her abdomen developed days ago.”
“She might’ve assumed it was bruises from the attack. Maybe she’d gotten used to the sight of them. The pain.”
I shake my head. “There’s no evidence she was struck in her midsection. No. This is from her abdominal cavity filling with blood. She probably suffered hypovolemic shock and inflammation due to blood pooling. She ran a fever. She groaned in pain. She held her stomach and winced at any sudden move. And she wasn’t alone. Someone watched her die.”
