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I close my eyes a moment and nod because she’s right.
“I guess we’ll just have to roll with the punches,” I say as our eyes lock onto one another.
“I guess we will,” she says with a smile.
I edge toward her and her head inches toward mine. It looks as if this night is about to take a turn for the better.
Our phones chirp and we both groan in unison.
It’s nice to know she shares the sentiment.
We check it out and it’s Hale.
Another body has been found. Report to the morgue in the morning. Get a good night’s rest. The dead can wait. But I want that killer caught asap. The next prospective victims out there are running out of time.
“He does have a way with words,” Fallon says, flopping her phone onto the table next to her.
“I guess we have a date at the morgue.”
“I could think of a few less romantic places.” She casts a glance toward my cabin, and I’d have to agree that any room with my mother in it would fit the bill.
“Do you have romance on your mind?” My lips curl at the thought as I pull her closer still.
“It beats death.”
“That might be the only thing that can.” I bring my mouth to hers and she doesn’t protest.
We don’t talk about death, serial killers, or my mother.
In fact, we don’t talk at all.
21
SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER
After a quick breakfast at my mother’s diner, Jack, Buddy, and I head to the coroner’s office in Denver, to the morgue attached that houses the latest victim of our rather prolific serial killer.
The morgue smells of industrial-grade cleanser mixed with the faint, lingering scent of something far worse. The air feels heavy and a little too cold because, let’s face it, it’s designed to slow everything down, maybe even your heartbeat. The hum of the refrigeration unit is the only sound we hear, constant and grating, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years. Doesn’t mean I like it.
Jack pulls the final door open, and Buddy trots in with his tail wagging as if this is just another stop on his walk. We don’t usually bring Buddy to this place, but we figured it’s probably time to introduce him to the bleak side of our careers.
Miller Thompson, the coroner, sheds a wide grin when he sees us, or maybe it’s just for Buddy. You never know with Miller—he could find the silver lining at a funeral.
“Morning, Miller,” I say, stepping in after Jack. The walls areall steel, and the lighting is fluorescent—harsh and sterile, with no mercy for the bags under your eyes. And it feels as if I’ve got some serious luggage.
We make our way past doors markedAutopsy RoomandCold Storage. It’s a testament to the fact that even the signs here feel clinical. Everything is stripped down to the bare essentials, just enough to make you feel like a number instead of a person.
“Morning, Agents.” Miller gives a nod and crouches down to give Buddy a good scratch behind the ears. “And morning to this big guy. I see you brought the chief,” he teases before lifting Buddy’s face toward him. “Been keeping these two out of trouble?”
“Not even close,” I say with a dull laugh.
“You have no idea.” Jack steps over to metal tables lined with bodies covered with sheets and his mouth curls at the corners.
Miller belts out a rumble of a laugh. “I’d ask what happened, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”
“Good call,” I say, leaning against one of the cool steel counters. “What’ve you got for us?”
“Sherry Kent.” Miller moves to one of the tables and pulls back the sheet with a quick flick of his wrist as if he were a magician. And if he were a magician, he’d be a lousy one. It looks as if his assistant just bit the big one. “Her throat has a nice clean slice across it, no signs of struggle,” he muses. “Someone knew what they were doing.”