Page 95

Inside the autopsy room, the body lies on a stainless-steel table, a sheet drawn up to her chin. The medical examiner, a balding man with thick glasses, looks up from his clipboard as we enter.

“Detective Coleman,” he acknowledges. “Mr. Callahan. And…” He looks questioningly at Lena.

“A consultant,” Coleman says before I can speak. “It’s fine, Doc. What can you tell us?”

The medical examiner pulls back the sheet, revealing a middle-aged woman with dark hair. Her face is badly beaten, almost unrecognizable, with severe bruising and fractures across her facial bones. Unlike Elizabeth Short’s almost theatrical presentation, Jeanne French’s death appears brutally direct—rage rather than ceremony.

Or at least, that’s what it's designed to look like.

“Cause of death is blunt force trauma to the head and chest,” the examiner explains clinically. “Multiple broken ribs, one of which punctured the right lung. But as with the Short case, there’s a nearly complete absence of blood in the body—much more than would naturally drain from the external wounds.”

“They collected it,” Lena murmurs.

Coleman and the examiner both look at her sharply.

“It’s a logical conclusion,” she says quickly. “If this is a ritual killing, blood collection would be consistent with certain occult practices.”

I step closer to the body, my enhanced vision picking up details I might have missed before my transformation. Beneath the obvious trauma, there are precise incisions on her torso—strange symbols carved post-mortem, similar to what I’d glimpsed in the warehouse with Lena.

“These markings,” I say, pointing to the symbols partially obscured by bruising. “They seem deliberate.”

“Yes,” the examiner agrees with a raised brow. “At first glance, they appeared to be random injuries from the beating. But under closer examination, they’re too precise, too patterned. Someone carved these after death.”

“And the lipstick message?” I ask, noticing the smeared red letters on her chest and abdomen. I can see how one might think the P is a B.

“Certainly done by the killer, but it feels performative,” the examiner says. “Like a distraction from these other markings. Or it’s a message for us. For you.”

“Fuck you Police Department,” Lena says under her breath.

“A cover,” Coleman says, following my train of thought. “Make it look like a domestic dispute gone wrong. Her ex-husband has a history of violence. He was investigated before by the police. Make it sound like he’s sending a message to the cops. Perfect scapegoat.”

“Unless itisa message for the cops,” I say, to which Coleman shrugs.

“Maybe. But get this. She was a nurse so we already had her blood type on file. AB negative,” Coleman says.

I feel Lena tense beside me.

“Time of death?” I press.

“Between ten p.m. and midnight last night,” the examiner says. “Based on body temperature and lividity.”

Exactly when Lena and I were at the Ivanov mansion, drugged and manipulated. A perfect alibi—if we needed one.

Coleman pulls me aside as the examiner covers the body. “There’s something else,” he says quietly. “The French murder scene was less than a mile from where they found Short. We found traces of a powerful sedative in all three victims’ systems. Some compound the lab boys can’t identify. Like they drugged them before they killed them.”

Just as they’d drugged Lena and me.

“You’re onto something, aren’t you?” Coleman studies my face. “Something you’re not telling me.”

“It’s complicated,” I hedge.

“Complicated enough to get you killed?” His voice drops further. “Word on the street is Cohen is blaming you for Marco’s disappearance. You’re in a lot of danger.”

If he only knew how dangerous—vampires, rituals, blood magic. Things that would get me committed if I tried to explain them.

“I can handle Cohen,” I say instead.

Coleman snorts. “No one handles Cohen. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.” He glances at Lena, who pretends not to be listening. “Both of you.”