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“Avery.”
Carson’s somber tone draws my attention. I look up to see the unsaid question in his eyes. “We don’t know that she was tortured,” he says.
I nod once. “But we do know she was abused.”
The air thickens, a heavy weight of apprehension settles between us.
“I’ll get the toxicology results to you soon,” I say, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “By this afternoon. I’ll have more definitive answers for you and Quinn then.”
I turn away and begin jotting notes on my form, my back to Carson. He accepts the curt dismissal and heads toward the swing doors, but says on his way out, “It will get easier.”
My eyes close. A tremor spasms my hand, and the pen drags down the middle of the page. I look down and study the jagged ink trail as the flapping of the doors echoes through the room.
Easier. With time, everything becomes easier. Our senses dull. Our memory fades. Our pain becomes not as sharp. Then we’re not so aware of the displacement we feel in our own lives; how we no longer fit.
Sure. With time, it got easier for Sadie. So easy, in fact, that she justified taking a life with hardly any confliction. Maybe I should’ve waited for the dulling of time to wipe me void of conscience before I stamped my name on that COD report. Instead, all my wounds remain fresh and unhealed, my guilt a wave of saltwater rushing over.
* * *
“Do you know how I’ll break you?” His words slither into my ear, his breath hot against my face. “It’s a slow and laborious process. Not unlike how our Sadie herself was broken. In the end, you’ll crave my touch.”
The soft pads of his fingers graze me through the sheer material of my underwear. I yank back, my muffled cry gagged by the tape covering my mouth.
His arm slips around my waist, hauling my back against his solid form. Gloved fingers splay against my skin with clinical precision. Everything about him is cold and sterile. “Yes. You’ll crave my tender touch…because the alternative is so much worse.”
A bang rouses me awake with a start. I’m off the cot and through the office door, my heart stuttering in my chest. Quinn and Carson stand in the middle of the lab, Carson hunched over as he picks up a steel brain pan from the floor.
“Sorry,” Quinn says, nodding toward the other detective. “The rookie is still acquiring his sleuthing skills.” He gives Carson a hard glare before his hazel eyes settle on me.
I look away, finding my phone in my pocket to check the time: 7:35. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I just laid down for a minute.”
Quinn shrugs. “You’ve been heading up the lab on your own today.”
It’s not a question, or an accusation. It’s an assessment. I am tired due to the fact that it’s a bank holiday and most of my colleagues and interns took half the day off. I didn’t want to spend another day in front of the TV. Or sitting alone in the mocking silence. I’d rather be at work, with the dead. At least in their company, I feel a kinship.
We’re both numb.
“I still should’ve gotten you over my findings earlier.” I tug out a pair of gloves and switch on the overhead projection screen. An illuminated image of the vic’s torso displays. “I’m still examining the trace I found in the wound, but as you can see here”—I point to the
puncture mark—“the tear in the liver isn’t consistent with a knife. The bruising and perimortem inflammation around her midsection prevented me from determining the exact shape and size of the injury. But the liver still retains the shape.”
I bring out the bin containing the damaged organ and place it on the autopsy table.
Quinn moves closer to inspect. “The weapon used was round.”
“Like a pen, or pencil,” I note.
His gaze sweeps over the projected X-ray, then lands on me. “The perp attacked her with a pen?”
I shrug. “Possibly. Or it could’ve been an accident.”
Carson interjects. “Everything about her circumstance indicates this was no accident.”
I agree, for the most part, but… “The injury could’ve been obtained during a struggle. She may’ve landed on the object either during or after the assault. There’s no way to know for sure.”
“Either way,” Quinn says, coming around the autopsy cart toward me. “The vic died as a result. We’re looking for a perp.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll see if I can narrow down likely objects. Find the weapon, and I’m sure you’ll find your perp.”
