Page 40 of Detectives in Love

It’s not magic. I’m not a doctor or anything, but I did my time as a CSI tech after my bachelor’s—I know my way around a corpse. And unlike Xavier, dead bodies don’t make me squeamish.

I glance around, spot a box of gloves, and pull on a pair.

“What are we looking for?” I ask.

“Anything,” Xavier murmurs. “Anything besides the obvious.”

I get to work, running my hands over cold skin, scanning for anything that doesn’t line up. The dim light isn’t doing me any favors, but I keep quiet about it. The last thing we need is a guard checking in.

“Can you give me the autopsy report?” I say.

Xavier pulls a worn folder from his pocket, flips it open, and holds it out. I glance between the report and the body, cross-checking details.

Fifteen minutes pass. Xavier shifts beside me, restless.

“There’s gotta be something else,” he mutters. “There has to be, Newt.”

“Give me a sec, Xavier.”

“Any chance you could pick up the pace?”

I ignore him. Another few minutes go by in silence. Then, finally, I straighten up, peel off one glove, and roll my shoulders.

“I think I found something.” I point to the dark bruising and swelling on one of Henry’s feet. “See that?”

Xavier exhales. “Yeah, it’s arthritis. Says so in the report.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Henry Wakefield had DCS.”

Xavier frowns. “English, please?”

“Decompression sickness. The bends.”

“The bends? Like what divers get?”

“Yep.”

He stares at me. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Xavier rakes a hand through his hair, messing it up. I can see the frustration tightening his jaw, the way his eyes narrow like he’s sifting through a pile of junk, searching for the one piece that fits. “Newt, the complications take years to develop, even in divers. You’re absolutely certain?”

“Yes, Xavier. Arthritis usually affects both sides. Henry only has swelling in one leg. And there’s a rash on his shoulders and upper abdomen. His records show he’d been complaining about muscle and joint pain, but the doctors chalked it up to arthritis. Same with the shortness of breath, the heart issues. But it all adds up.”

Xavier stares down at the body, then exhales sharply. “So Henry Wakefield had decompression sickness. And no one noticed.”

I nod.

His brows pull together. “So what—he was sneaking off to go diving in his free time?”

I shrug. “Or maybe he was secretly an astronaut. DCS might not have killed him outright, but it definitely could’ve played a role. I need time to think it through, go over the report and case file again before I start forming theories.”

Xavier just looks at me for a second. Then, like something short-circuits in his brain, his face lights up. “You’re brilliant,” he blurts—and pulls me into a quick, tight hug.

I freeze, heart hammering. But before I can even react, he lets go, slams the chamber shut, stuffs the folder into his coat, and strides toward the exit like he’s on a mission.

“Xavier?” I toss the gloves in the bin and jog after him. “You’ve got a theory?”