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“Her hair’s dyed,” I say, feeling oddly guilty, as if I’m being catty when I’m only making an important point. “It could have come from underneath, at the roots, but her hair was never this dark. This is also shorter.”
I force myself to turn to Garrett. “What’s your take?”
Until now, he’s been quick to play the cop card. That’s why he’s here, although after my talk with Sadie last night, I know that was just an excuse. The point, though, is that heisa detective and I only play one on the page. Yet when I ask his opinion, panic flits across his face.
Shit.
How long exactly have you been a detective, Garrett?
Not long. Not on cases that involve forensic evidence like this.
Forensic evidence.
Is that what this is? Is that what Nate’s hand is? Clues in some murder-mystery-weekend crime?
I shiver, but I’m not really thinking of it like that. I’m distancing myself to analyze this hank of hair so I don’t completely break down because there is chunk of hair and blood and scalp in Madison’s bed.
In the bed where Sadie was.
Sadie, who is now missing.
“You’re right,” Garrett says gruffly. “It’s not her natural hair color, and it’s too short.”
“But being short wouldn’t matter,” Madison says. “The hair could have been cut.”
“Good point, kiddo,” Garrett says, and I try not to bristle. At least he’s being nice to her.
I bend closer to look for split ends, which would suggest the hairhadn’tbeen cut. The smell hits me. The stink of blood but something else, too. The very first hints of decay, like at my family’s ramshackle cottage when we didn’t check a mousetrap fast enough.
I rise. “This was ripped out more than a few hours ago. The scalp part smells of decomp.”
Garrett gives a derisive snort as he bends. Then he straightens fast.
“Laney’s right.”
He backs up, runs his hands over his face and hisses an exhale through his teeth, shoulders relaxing.
“It’s not Sadie,” I say softly.
“Then who the hell is it?” Jayla says.
Garrett recovers and folds his arms. “It’s a prank. The hand, too.”
“If you are telling me that’s not a real piece of someone’s scalp,” Jayla says, “or a real fuckinghand—”
“Course it’s real,” Garrett says. “From a morgue or something.”
“A morgue?” Jayla says. “Seriously?”
I step between them. “He’s suggesting that someone took them from a dead body, maybe at a funeral parlor, someone due to be cremated or…” I throw up my hands. “I don’t know the specifics, but Garrett means that someone could have gotten these parts from an already-dead body and staged them to look like Nate’s hand and someone else’s hair.”
“Is that possible?” Kit says.
“For a writer, anything is possible.” I look at Garrett. “In real life, though…?”
“Last year, we got called to a scene where a guy’s wife died during the pandemic, and he never notified anyone because he wanted to keep her body for—” His gaze falls on Madison, and he clears his throat. “For collecting her paychecks.”
“Yeah, that isn’t what you were going to say,” Madison mutters.“I’m not ten, and I don’t thinkanyoneneeded that story, but we get the point.” She turns to me. “So that might not have been Nate’s hand? Just some guy’s, and they added nail polish and a class ring so we’d think it’s Nate?”
