Page 5 of Vital Signs

The fury spread through my chest like poison, burning away the last traces of professional distance. This wasn't just about Tyler anymore. This was about every system that failed people like us. Every institution that looked at vulnerable people and saw profit margins instead of human beings.

Someone had killed Tyler. Maybe through negligence, maybe deliberately, but someone was responsible.

And they needed to pay.

"We need to find who did this to him," I said, clenching my fists.

River frowned and lowered the pill bottle he was examining. "You can bring it to the family at the next meeting, but..."

"But what?"

"But you need to come with evidence," he said simply. No judgment about the murder fantasies playing out behind my eyes. River understood rage and the need for vengeance.

Maybe that was the problem.

I clenched my fists tighter. "I can do this, River. I'm ready."

River picked up one of the pill bottles and tossed it to me. "Well, looks like you've got an easy starting point. Someone named Dr. Wright is the prescribing physician."

I caught the bottle and turned it over in my hands. Dr. Elliot Wright. Ohio University Medical Clinic. Uptown address.

"We can hold the body for seventy-two hours without additional extenuating circumstances," River continued. "Take the time. See what you come up with and then bring it to the family meeting. They'll be more likely to listen if you come with evidence."

I lowered the bottle. "Thank you."

He just looked away and snorted. "Check his phone for an emergency contact. You can use the office phone to call. I'll put him in cold storage and refile the corrected paperwork."

"Thank you," I said again, not knowing what else to say.

"Don't thank me," he grumbled, already zipping the body bag up. "Just do it right."

Do it right.

The words echoed in my head as I climbed the stairs. River's version of "right" involved breaking into a dead man's phone. It meant crossing ethical boundaries in pursuit of justice.

Was that so different from what I'd been doing on the runways? There, I’d used my body and my face to get what I wanted, manipulating desire in exchange for power.

Maybe I'd always been willing to cross lines. I'd just been crossing different ones.

Upstairs in the main office, I scrolled through Tyler's contacts until I found the picture of the man standing outside. I dialed the number carefully. It rang once. Twice. Three times.

"This is Hunter. You know what to do." The voice sounded rough, gravelly, with a no-nonsense edge.

The beep sounded, and I hesitated. What did I say? Your friend is dead in my morgue? Someone murdered him, and I want revenge?

I cleared my throat. "Hello. This is Michael from the Laskin Family Funeral Home. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, but we have a young man named Tyler Graham here. The county has been unsuccessful in reaching his next of kin, so I thought... I thought I'd start reaching out to his other contacts. Please call me back when you get this. For Tyler." I left my number and hung up.

Hunter had cared enough to stand vigil outside a funeral home for hours. What kind of man inspired that loyalty? What kind of friend was worth that devotion?

I sat back in the chair, glaring at the phone, willing it to ring, but it stayed silent.

Movement outside caught my attention. A shadow passed beneath the security light at the back of the building.

I switched off the desk lamp and moved to the window. Hunter stood at the edge of the property, examining the service entrance. Now that I knew who he was, his purpose was clear. He was looking for a way in to get to Tyler.

I slid open the window and leaned out. "If you're looking for Tyler Graham, I'm the one who called you, Hunter."

He turned. For a moment, our eyes locked across the darkness. His face remained expressionless, but his posture tensed like a predator deciding whether to fight or flee.