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CHAPTER TWO

I checked my phone to read the text that had just come through. “Lily and Sheldon are here for retrieval.”

Lily wasn’t just Cole’s cohabitant—she was also the assistant coroner for the county. She was working part-time for me while finishing up medical school. Since I’d met her about a year ago, she’d done nothing but make my life easier. She was an amazing person, and I loved her, but I knew her time with me would be short lived. Once she finished school, she’d get a job paying a lot more than what King George County could offer. She had the kind of mind that caught details others missed, and hands steady enough to make even the most delicate incisions. I sometimes caught myself watching her work, remembering my own early days in medicine, before I’d chosen the dead over the living.

Sheldon also worked for me as my assistant funeral home director, and for the most part, he managed to make my life a little more manageable. Let’s just say Sheldon had a special talent for dealing with the dead, but when it came to the living, we were still in training mode. He’d come a long way since his fresh-out-of-mortuary-school days, though. At least he’d stopped describing the embalming process to horrified loved ones.

My job as coroner had been taking up more and more of my time over the last couple of years as the population of King George County had grown. People from the big cities had started populating the area because King George was an easy commute, but there was also a lot of land. Developers were clamoring to buy up land in King George, but Jack and the county council had done a great job of being selective in who could come in—like The Mad King and a hotel and conference center. Along with the controlled developments, there was also the hospital and a major university, along with four towns that were vastly different in size and society.

Bloody Mary, where the funeral home was located, was the smallest of the four towns. It was barely more than a crossroads with a post office and a couple of storefronts, but it had character—and characters—to spare. Newcastle had become the trendy spot for artists and small boutiques. King George Proper was a college and military town, full of bars, cheap apartments, and tract houses. Nottingham was where the money lived—an East Coast Silicon Valley—with sprawling estates and private security gates. Each had its own unique charm and challenges, and all of them fell under Jack’s jurisdiction.

It was a huge undertaking and Jack managed to make his job look easy. There were a lot of politics at play, and Jack might not want to admit it, but he could weave through the ins and outs of politics with his eyes closed. He was a natural, stepping into rooms of power with the same ease he used to calm a frightened witness. But along with the “progress” came big-city crime.

Murders took time to solve, and the victims deserved my full attention. But the demand from the funeral home was still there, and the dead and their families deserved the best service Graves Funeral Home could give them. It was a difficult balance—going between embalmings and autopsies—and one I was still trying to figure out if I was being honest. Sometimes I felt stretched between two worlds, neither of which I could neglect without serious consequences.

I used Lily and Sheldon’s arrival as a chance to leave the room and breathe in some fresh air. After more than a month of nonstop rain in King George, the weather had cleared and the temperatures had warmed. It was a beautiful sunny morning with not a cloud in the sky, the kind of day that made you forget, if only for a moment, that you’d been surrounded by death and decay just minutes before.

I had the front door of the villa open, and I was standing on the porch when I saw the Suburban heading in our direction on a path meant for a golf cart. The vehicle lumbered along, looking comically oversized against the manicured landscape of The Mad King Resort.

Lily and Sheldon parked, got out, and then went to the back to take out the gurney. The wheels made a distinctive metallic clack as they unfolded it, a sound I’d heard so many times it had become as familiar as a doorbell or ringtone—the sound of death being transported. But Lily stopped to look at me once they’d gotten onto the porch, her dark eyebrows drawing together in concern.

She was a beautiful young woman—long dark hair that fell in waves past her shoulders, a clear olive complexion that never seemed to need makeup, dark eyes that missed nothing, and a body that most men looked at twice. She was also one of the nicest people I’d ever met, except for today apparently, when her candor cut right through my facade.

“What’s up with you?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “You look weird.”

“Thanks?” I said, mouth twitching at her bluntness. One of the things I loved about Lily was that she never sugarcoated anything. In our line of work, that was refreshing.

“No, I mean it,” she said, studying me with the same focus she’d use on a Y-cut. “There’s something off. You’re pale, even for you, and you’ve got a pinched look around your mouth.”

I shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. Lily knew me too well, and it was unnerving sometimes how she could read the tells I thought I’d hidden from view.

“I got overheated inside while I was working on the victims. I just needed some fresh air for a minute. But I’m fine.”

“Did you know the most common trigger for fainting is seeing blood?” Sheldon asked, adjusting his glasses with one finger. “About thirty-six percent of first-time blood donors experience some level of vasovagal syncope, or fainting. It’s a complex interplay of the parasympathetic nervous system and?—”

“Sheldon,” Lily said, cutting him off.

Sheldon was a fount of knowledge, most of it useless, but he occasionally came out with a gem that helped us during a case. I was guessing that this was not going to be one of those times. Sheldon was young, in his mid-twenties, but he already showed signs of male-pattern baldness that he tried to disguise with careful combing. He moved with the deliberateness of a man who’d reached the age where blowing his nose might throw out his back.

He was a couple of inches shorter than me and had the kind of soft baby fat that he’d carry for life. His cheeks were perpetually flushed, round as apples, and I wasn’t sure he’d ever had to shave. He wore Coke-bottle-thick glasses that made his eyes look giant behind the lenses, giving him the appearance of a startled owl most of the time.

“You’re right, Sheldon,” I said, deadpan. “Maybe blood is the trigger. All this time I had no idea.”

“If so,” he said, looking as serious as a man without a sense of humor could, his face unnervingly earnest, “I think you might be in the wrong line of work. Though I did read about a surgeon who had to undergo hypnotherapy to overcome his fear of blood. Perhaps that could be an option for you as well?”

I exchanged a look with Lily, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. “I’ll keep that in mind, Sheldon. Thank you.”

I followed Lily and Sheldon back inside and really took a good look at the villa for the first time. I didn’t know if it was worth a couple of thousand a night, but it was one of the most luxurious rooms I’d ever seen as far as resorts go, and that’s saying something because Jack had taken me to some pretty fancy places over the years. Of course, we’d solved a murder on our honeymoon, so we didn’t exactly have a normal honeymoon experience.

“Dang,” Lily said, echoing my thoughts. Her eyes widened as she took in the luxurious surroundings, her professional demeanor momentarily slipping to reveal the young woman who’d grown up in modest circumstances. “Look at this place. Cole’s whole house could fit right inside here.”

The main living area was overshadowed by the panoramic view of the Potomac and the rushing waters of Popes Gorge. Floor-to-ceiling windows created the illusion of being suspended over the water, with nothing between you and the breathtaking vista. The floors and fireplace were natural stone, smooth and cool beneath our feet. All the colors were neutral—shades of cream, beige, and soft gray—so as not to take away from the view. The scent of fresh pine and cedarwood lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp, cool breeze coming through the open windows, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood that hung in the bedrooms.

The suitcases sitting just inside the door were expensive and matching in buttery soft leather, the kind with silent wheels and monogrammed tags. The rest of the room was as if it had never been touched. And I guessed it hadn’t. They’d hardly been inside before the killers had gunned them down. Theo’s suit jacket was tossed over the bar, right next to their hotel key, a small detail that spoke volumes about the unfolding of their last moments.

There was a bedroom and bathroom on each side of the main living area, creating a perfect symmetry to the villa’s layout. I steered Lily to the left, where Theo Vasilios’s body awaited transport. The CSI techs had finished photographing and collecting evidence, and now it was time for us to take him away from his interrupted honeymoon.

“Two victims,” I said, gesturing to the master bedroom door. “Husband in here, wife in the second bedroom.”

“That view is pretty spectacular,” Lily said, her gaze skimming over the body briefly before checking out the similar panorama visible from the bedroom windows. “Sometimes I forget how pretty our state is. But this wasn’t much of a honeymoon for our unlucky couple.” Her voice softened with the natural compassion that made her so good with grieving families.

Cole came over to greet Lily with a quick kiss on the top of her head, his hand lingering briefly on her shoulder. The gesture was small but telling—a man who’d spent years avoiding commitment now unable to resist the simple intimacy of touch. I’d watched their relationship evolve from casual dating to something much deeper, and despite Cole’s checkered past, I had high hopes for them. Lily had a way of seeing beyond people’s rough edges to the potential beneath.

“Did you know the word honeymoon originated during medieval times?” Sheldon asked, his eyes lighting up with excitement behind his thick lenses. He bounced slightly on his toes, unable to contain himself when sharing one of his many random facts.

“Nope,” Cole said, barely looking up from his notes, but Sheldon, oblivious to social cues as always, kept talking, his voice rising with enthusiasm.

“It was customary for the bride and groom to drink mead the first month of marriage. And since mead is a fermented honey beverage—made primarily from honey, water, and yeast—the term honeymoon stuck as a way to identify the celebration. Medieval couples believed this would enhance fertility and increase the chances of conceiving a son.”

“So you’re saying marriage was so bad they had to get drunk for the first full month to be able to live together?” Cole asked, a hint of his usual dry humor showing through despite the grim surroundings.

Sheldon’s mouth opened and closed like a fish while he tried to think of something to say, his mind visibly processing this unexpected interpretation of his historical tidbit. But he came back with, “I don’t think that’s what I said at all.” He looked at Cole owlishly. “I don’t feel like I’m qualified to give an accurate assessment on marriage. But I’ll find out and let you know. I’ll do some research on medieval marriage satisfaction rates when I get back to the funeral home.”

That was the first time I’d ever heard Sheldon say he didn’t know something, and I raised my brows at Cole, my eyes dancing with humor. It was these small moments of normality, of human connection, that kept us sane in the midst of tragedy.

“You asked for it,” I told Cole.

“Let’s load up the male first,” Lily said, unfolding the body bag with practiced efficiency. The sound of the zipper echoed in the quiet room. “Less mess. The female vic is going to need extra care with all that blood.”

“I’m going to head out and go catch a few hours’ sleep,” Cole said, stifling a yawn. The shadows under his eyes spoke of his all-night shift. “Call me if you need an extra set of hands. You can find Oliver Harris in his office in the main resort building.”

“Thanks for taking the call,” Jack said, clasping Cole’s shoulder briefly.

“Yeah, well, I’ll send you an invoice,” Cole said, tipping his hat, kissing Lily once more, and then heading out the door with the weary step of a man who’d seen too much death in too short a time.

“Once you get them unloaded and into the cooler y’all can take off,” I said, watching as Lily and Sheldon positioned the gurney beside the bed. “It’ll probably be a couple of hours before I can get back and start the autopsies.”

“I’d like to observe,” Lily said, her face lighting up at the prospect of more hands-on training. Her dedication to learning never ceased to impress me. “I need some more hours for this month for school, so I’ll hang around until you get back. I need to study anyway, and the funeral home is quiet.” She carefully arranged the body bag, her movements precise and respectful.

“It won’t be too quiet,” Sheldon said, his voice rising with a note of anxiety that made Jack and me exchange glances. “Victor Mobley’s viewing is tonight. I heard he was a Hells Angel. Emmy Lu said riders have come in all the way from California to see him laid to rest. Forty-three motorcycles by her last count. Did you know that Hells Angels was founded in 1948 in California? They actually trademarked their name and logo. It’s one of the most aggressively protected trademarks in the?—”

“Emmy Lu has better information than my dispatchers,” Jack interrupted, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and resignation. Emmy Lu had an uncanny network of sources that put most intelligence agencies to shame. “About a hundred bikers rode into town around midnight last night. Wanda Baker said her B&B is full for the weekend, and so is the D&Q Motel. The rest of them are at the hotels in King George.”

Baker Bed and Breakfast and the D&Q Motel were the only places to stay in Bloody Mary close to where the funeral home was located. D&Q stood for Drawn and Quartered, but locals had been calling it the D&Q for several decades as to not scare off potential business. The original owners had thought the macabre name would be eye catching. They’d been right, but not in the way they’d hoped.

“Maybe I should help out with the viewing,” I said, looking warily at Sheldon as he fumbled with the gurney straps. His hands were trembling slightly, his normally pale face even whiter at the prospect of hosting a funeral home full of outlaw bikers. He looked like a bikers’ favorite target—soft, nervous, the kind of person who might faint if someone said boo. “Just in case things get out of hand.”

“He should be fine,” Jack assured me, but I could see the slight crease between his brows that appeared whenever he was worried about something. “Outlaw bikers live by a code. And the death of one of their own means there’s a certain standard of behavior until the burial is over. But once he’s in the ground is when we’ll need to be on guard. They’ll hit the bars and start looking for trouble. The sooner we can escort them out of town the better.”

“I’m thinking about getting a tattoo,” Sheldon said out of the blue. “One of my friends has a full sleeve and the ladies are all over him whenever we go to the bars. Do you think I should get a sleeve?” He flexed his pudgy arm experimentally, as if imagining the artwork that might adorn it.

The question was directed at Lily, but Jack and I stopped in our tracks to listen to the conversation, and I noticed a couple of the CSI techs were listening intently as well, their evidence collection momentarily forgotten.

Bless Lily’s heart. She was always unfailingly kind, even when presented with the most absurd scenarios. She paused in her work, giving Sheldon her full attention. “I thought you hated needles?”

“That’s true,” Sheldon said, his eyes wide behind his glasses, blinking rapidly as the memory surfaced. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Or maybe I could do anesthesia. They could put me completely under while they do the work.”

“Also a needle,” she reminded him gently, the way one might explain something to a child. “And it seems risky. You never know what might happen to you if you go under in a tattoo parlor.”

“That’s true,” he said, nodding vigorously. “That happened to me once when I went to a palm reader in New Orleans. I woke up two days later in a cemetery with no memory of how I got there. Just my underwear and one sock. I still have dreams about it sometimes.”

“Good Lord,” Jack whispered, leaning close to me so only I could hear. “It’s a miracle he made it to adulthood. I still can’t believe you let him out in the field.”

“The social interactions have been good for him,” I said, watching Sheldon with a mix of amusement and concern as he recounted his New Orleans adventure to a captivated Lily. “He’s really come a long way. Not to mention how much we’ve all improved when we play Trivial Pursuit. Besides, he’s got a good heart. And in our line of work, that counts for a lot.”

Jack’s fingers brushed against mine briefly, a small gesture of agreement. In the midst of death, surrounded by the remnants of violence, these small moments of connection—of normality and even humor—were what kept us human. They were reminders that even in the darkest places, there was still room for light.