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I tilt my head. “You stressing about something else?”
“Like why there’s a body in my new living room, you mean?” Her shoulders jerk sharply in something that’s less like a shrug and more of a flinch. “But also, where I come from, you wonder how much you should say to cops. Even if you didn’t do a thing. You wonder how much they even care.”
“Fair enough, I guess,” I agree. “Where you from?”
“Queens. New York, I mean.”
“New York City?” I whistle softly. “Well, if you can give me a few minutes, Miss New York, maybe we can get this sorted.”
Her head snaps up and she glares at me, slightly baring her teeth.
I’m okay with that.
Rather have her pissed at me than panicked over finding the body.
See, that’s the thing with being a cop.
You get to see the front people put up. Right now, she’s putting up one hell of a wall, all alley cat bravado with her tail frizzed up and back arched, ready to claw me to pieces if I get too close or say the wrong thing.
It’s the body language that gives her away.
The way she holds her arms in close, making herself compact, shielding herself.
The way her fingers dig into her inner elbows until her knuckles show white through the skin.
For just a second, the way her lips tremble.
She’s holding it together out of sheer stubborn pride, I think, but it’s taking an iron will.
Deep down, the girl’s scared as hell, and who can blame her?
Who wouldn’t be, showing up in a strange new town and finding a body before they can even move into their new digs?
“Chief,” I say.
Bowden grunts back, climbing up on the porch behind me.
“Ma’am.” The chief tips his cap to Delilah before following me inside.
I hold my breath while my eyes adjust to the dimmer light.
Yep.
That’s a dead body, all right.
I stop just past the threshold, moving to one side to let the chief inside but going no further. I don’t want to disturb a single goddamned thing, just in case we’re dealing with a proper crime scene and not some freak accident.
I swallow hard, my throat going as dry as the Mojave.
At first blush, it looks like there’s blood all over the floor, spiraling out in liquid pools across the wood.
Actually, it’s not blood—it’s silk.
A red dress the same rusty color as half-dried blood, the bodice belted with a streaming scarlet sash, the skirt spread around the body of a once-pretty slender girl with gold skin and a twist of black hair pinned behind her head.
One arm sprawls out and the other rests against her side.
She’s young, judging by her build and porcelain-smooth skin. Face down, I can’t make out an identity just yet, but at first glance I don’t pick up on anything I recognize.
My heart sinks.
Who is she, and what the hell happened to her?
“You recognize her?” I ask Bowden.
He shakes his head, clucking his tongue in that annoying habit he has.
“Don’t look like nobody I seen around,” he says. “You wanna turn her over?”
“Not yet.” I fish my phone out from my pocket. “Don’t move anything until I get a few good pictures. Might have to bring in the Feds and they always appreciate the extra camerawork.”
I open my camera app, adjust the lighting, and start snapping photos, carefully circling the body at a distance. There’s no furniture in this room to move with the house still mostly bare, making it easy to keep an eye out for anything of interest.
Fucking shame I already know I won’t find anything.
Probably wasn’t meant to find this body, either.
Only, something happened.
Somebody made a big damn boo-boo.
I can’t imagine anyone leaving her here on purpose.
I step closer, crouching down and taking a few more detailed shots.
She’s definitely dead—no respiration at all—but she couldn’t have been gone for more than a day when there’s no sign of decomposition. If not for the awkward angle of her body and the total motionlessness, I’d think she was just passed out cold, sleeping pretty as a picture.
Just to be doubly certain, I stow my phone and fish out a pair of nitrile gloves from my pocket, then snap them on and press two fingers to her throat.
No pulse.
Wouldn’t that have been a lovely surprise.
Tell the new teacher her dead girl’s actually a drunk girl who stumbled into her house, and everything’s okay.
“Anything?” Bowden asks.
I shake my head. “She’s cold. Help me turn her over, Chief. Careful, now.”
I catch her shoulders.
Bowden catches her feet and we gently flip her over onto her back. Her limbs flop limply, her head lolling in this sad nod.
Once she’s repositioned, I crane my head, frowning down at her face.
Damn.
No signs of bruising, injury, nothing.
Just a little puffiness around her eyes, which is normal as the body shuts down. She’s Instagram model pretty, but she doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen, even with the summer tourists who invade our growing handful of Airbnbs and rentals.
