Page 28 of Distress Signal

The theme continued in the morgue itself, with the walls painted a creamy beige and the linoleum floor a few shades lighter, worn though clean.

Along one wall was a collection of six doors, presumably lockers for bodies, though I doubted they’d ever been full at once.

A man stood in the center of the room, wearing a white lab coat and gloves on his hands, which were clasped in front of him, waiting for us.

The medical examiner, I guessed.

Lane approached and said, “Hey, Stockman. This is Reagan. She’s here to do a visual ID on the woman.”

“Relative of yours?” Stockman asked. Then he extended a hand. “I’m Clay, by the way.”

I accepted his handshake, though the entire situation was so surreal, as though happening to someone else.

What a strange question to ask, I thought. Surely, he’d done a cursory examination of the body? Surely, he recognized I wore the same face as the deceased?

The same sense ofwrongnessI’d experienced yesterday when Lane first called with the news settled over me again, but I couldn’t put my finger onwhy.

“She is—was,” I corrected awkwardly, practically choking on the word, “my sister.”

“I am sorry for your loss. This will only take a few moments.”

Stockman moved to the table on one side of the room—the portion of the space I’d carefully avoided looking at until now. But as my eyes traveled over it, over the shape under the white sheet, I began shaking uncontrollably. My feet were anchored to the floor, suddenly made of immovable concrete instead of flesh and bone.

“I can’t do this,” I murmured to Finn, wanting to turn into him and bury my face in his chest.

His hands found my upper arms, and he shifted around so he faced me, ducking until we were eye level.

“This is going to be the worst thing you’ll ever endure in your life,” he said.

I snorted, saying sarcastically, “Thanks for making me feel better.”

Finn shook his head. “You won’t feel better until you get it over with. Until you confirm it’s her and can start moving on, start healing.”

I knew he was right. That didn’t make what I was about todo any easier, but like ripping the bandage off, it would only be a few seconds of intense, stinging pain before eventually dulling to an ache. I knew the pain of the loss of my sister would never fully recede, but this was the first step in making it slightly easier to bear.

Plus, I had to identify her before we could figure out who the fuck had done this to her. Lane had told me Stockman wouldn’t begin the autopsy until I confirmed Lainey’s identity.

With a final, deep sigh that I held in for four counts, willing myself to relax a bit, I opened my eyes and nodded at Finn, who shifted to my side.

“Okay,” I said softly, my voice so small it barely echoed in the cacophonous space. “I’m ready.”

“Atta girl,” Finn said, rubbing a hand up and down my spine.

Honestly, I didn’t think I could’ve done this without him. His steady presence meant more to me than I’d ever be able to tell him.

With light pressure, Finn ushered me forward until I stood at the side of the metal table, across from Stockman.

The ME gripped the edge of the sheet.

From there, it all seemed to happen in slow motion—his hand pulling the fabric back, revealing inch by excruciating inch of the dead woman’s face. Stockman folded the sheet neatly across the top of her chest, revealing her entire face, neck, and shoulders, stopping above the curves of her breasts.

I stared in horror at the woman’s neck, the long, ovular bruises decorating the flesh—the shapes of fingers, I realized—marring the deathly pallor of her skin, a purple so dark they were nearly black.

Her cause of death was obvious.

My gaze traveled slowly north, over her jaw and chin, full mouth, long nose, high cheekbones and the dark slashes of her brows over her closed eyes.

To her hair, honey blonde but dark at the roots, fanned outaround her on the shiny steel surface of the medical examiner’s slab.