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One
Honor
Six Months Ago
It's a truth universally acknowledged that a woman should meet men on the apps and not in the morgue. Yet here I am, in the saddest place I've ever been, at the worst moment of my life, while also trying not to notice the stranger across the room.
I can't do this. I need to leave.
The first time I came to this morgue I said goodbye to my parents.
The second time was to say goodbye to my little brother.
This time is unquestionably the worst.
There should be a word for those who have lost everyone they have ever loved.
When I leave this windowless jail of a room, I will be entirely alone in this world. It will be the first day of the rest of my life without my favorite person, my best friend, my identical twin, Grace.
I'm only eyeing the guy in here because he's so conspicuously distracting, obnoxiously intruding on my grief. Who wears a tux and a dark cashmere overcoat to the morgue? Who takes a call at the morgue? Anger heats my skin. For the past ten minutes, I've been sitting alone with my sister's body, trying to process the horror of it. I did not anticipate that this final moment would be interrupted by someone who has absolutely no consideration for anyone, dead or alive, other than himself.
What's he doing here, anyway? He's obviously not grieving anyone.
My twin was three minutes and twenty-seven seconds older than me, and now, for the first time in my life, I'm older than her. How can that be true? I feel trapped in one of those nightmares where you want to scream but you can't.
Gracie and I used to stand next to each other in the mirror and play Spot the Difference. Our own parents often mixed us up, which always seemed ridiculous to me. We moved through the world like complete opposites. I once read a quote that one sister is always the dancer, the other the watcher.
Gracie was my dancer.
And yet it's my twin's face that I now look at on a metal slab.
So this is what it's like to have someone scoop out your heart.
This is what it's like to have nothing left to lose.
What happens when the person who shares your secrets dies?
Do the secrets die, too?
That could be one mercy.
The guy looks over but doesn't break his conversation. He's got the kind of arrogant good looks that probably let him get away with everything. Eyes as dark gray as the midnight sky. Thick, wavy hair, and a jaw sharp enough to slice ham. Gracie would have loved him.
How could he not see me? What could he possibly be talking about that is worth disturbing my last-my final goodbye? As he starts wrapping up his call, he sweeps past me as if I don't even exist. Like I've dissolved into vapor.
Except I am right here, under these flickering fluorescent lights. I have not disappeared, and neither has my grief.
On his way out the door, he accidentally hip-checks Gracie's gurney, bumping it.
Last straw. I wheel on him.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snap. "That's my sister that you just pushed out of the way like a-like a shopping cart! What are you even doing here?"
To his credit, he turns. Stares at me as if seeing me for the very first time. Then slides his phone into his coat pocket. His eyes linger, taking measure. Then he nods, finally apologetic, and with what looks like a wave of compassion, he holds up his hands as if in surrender.
"Breathe," he says. "Please. Just breathe."
Two
Strike
Six Months Ago
The first thing I notice is that she's hot-but more like a sunbeam than a thunderstorm. The second, that she's so teary and enraged, she looks like she might deck me.
Fair enough.
I'm so used to this place, I forget that for other people, any time spent in the morgue rates as one of the shittiest days of their lives.
I look back at the gurney I bumped. A toe-tagged girl.
This fucking world.
I should let this woman punch me. It would probably make her feel better.
"I'm not kidding," I say. "There's literally no air circulation down here. You got to breathe. In and out."
Her nostrils flare, but she inhales and exhales along with me. In my pocket, I hear Axe still talking, his distinct accent clipped and low. I tap the button to end the call without taking my eyes off her. I've got a dozen things that need to be handled right now, starting with identifying the body of Esperanza Martinez and finding out who put her here (no doubt her abusive ex-husband) and ending with the sort of gala that is so dull it makes me want to carve my own eyes out.
But I can't do anything more than contemplate this furious young woman standing in front of me.
She's got a smudge of bright green-paint, maybe?-streaked across the edge of her chin. And some on her neck? Like a kid who got a little overly excited with the finger paints.
"Sorry for being disrespectful," I say sincerely. "And I'm sorry for not making what I hope is your first and last trip to this hellscape any easier."
"It's my third time here, actually," she says, her chin lifting in defiance, her voice trembling slightly.
Oof. "Sorry. That's . . . a lot."
"Yeah, well. Reluctant return client," she says. A tear breaks and slips down her cheek. She brushes it away. She hates that she's crying, and suddenly all I want more than anything is to cheer up this heartbroken girl.
"Tell me more," I say. "I see a lot of . . . this type of thing . . . in my line of work." Not a complete lie. Plus she's got the saddest eyes I've ever seen. And I get the sense she needs to talk.
She presses her lips together. I can feel her loneliness joining forces with her need to say something about her sister. I remain stock-still. During my basic training for the CIA's Special Ops Group down in Virginia, I learned to hold a position for hours without betraying a moment of restlessness.
But in this case, it's not an assignment. I want to know. "Please," I say. "I'm . . . here."
"Gracie went missing over a week ago," she says, her words coming in a tumble. "Troy, her boyfriend, returned from their camping trip without her, claiming that she'd run off into the night after an argument. He said he'd searched for her for hours, and he was worried she'd fallen off a cliff." She seems to remember my advice as she pauses and takes a long, shaking breath. "So for ten days I've lived in this nightmare of not knowing-except I did know. I did." She looks at me, her eyes electric with fury. "I knew that whatever happened to Gracie, it was Troy. This afternoon, they found her at the bottom of a ravine. He must have pushed her. But now I've got some . . ." She swallows hard as her shoulders lift and drop in a sigh.
"Some confirmation," I say.
She nods, closes her eyes, but when I offer her a handkerchief, she half laughs. "Seriously?" she asks. "You're going to let me use that beautiful handkerchief for my snot?"
"Oh, it's not mine. It's property of the morgue," I say deadpan, hoping the joke will brighten her up. I'd do anything to coax a lighter mood out of her, trigger a sense of connection, if only for a moment. Even though that's not my usual MO. "It's part of their new hospitality revamp."
She blinks, but then nods, takes the handkerchief, and blows her nose, hard. Then she doesn't seem to know what to do with it.
"Keep it," I say. "They're doing a whole line of morgue souvenirs. Nice touch, yes?" I stroke my jawline, like I'm thinking it through.
"I mean, it's useful, at least," she says. "Better than a shot glass that says Last Shot, right?" She sniffles and blows again.
"Or a mini-flashlight that says Lights Out."
She shakes her head-but I can feel that the dark humor is also wringing out some tension.
"And," I add, "the parking lot is pretty well-lit. Four stars for that, right?"
The reward of her laugh feels like a sliver of sun through this gruesome room. "Three stars," she says, and then takes a beat. "Because they really should offer valet."
"On the upside, a friendly, courteous staff."
She glances around.
"Staff?"
True, the place is deserted. The people who work here tend to keep to themselves.
"Just a skeleton crew," I say, and then groan. "Morgue pun, sorry. In all honesty, I do wish they had a coffee machine."
"A coffee machine might bump the place up half a star," she says gamely. "Or complimentary pumpkin spice lattes."
"Or lottery tickets. Back massages. A goldfish in a plastic bag. The thing about a morgue is the bar is just so low."
"Agree." She nods and sighs, but while she might still be close to tears, she's no longer standing on the edge of them.
"So what did they book him on?" I ask. "Second degree? Manslaughter?"
"Troy? No," she says. "Troy hasn't been charged with anything."
Every muscle of my body tenses with that all-too-familiar rage, like liquid fire inside me. I forcibly unclench my fists.
"Then I hope you get some kind of justice," I say carefully. "Or at least some closure."
"Justice," she repeats, like the concept is alien to her. "Right."
I can't let myself think about some sociopathic murdering fuckhead named Troy walking free or I will punch this wall until I break every bone in my fist.
"Strike Madden," I say, extending my hand instead. I suddenly crave contact with her skin, and when she places her palm in mine, I am calmed. She feels delicate. I spy half-moons of green paint under her fingernails. Artist's hands.
"Honor Stone," she says. "Sorry if I can't add 'nice to meet you,' because I'm not sure it has been nice, exactly, to meet under these circumstances." She shrugs.
She's right. Electric, maybe. But not nice.
"You've got some . . ." I use the side of my thumb to rub at the green paint and show her.
"Oh!" She takes her handkerchief to the place I've touched. "I'm such a mess."
"You paint?"
She nods. "I do."
"Hang on, let me . . ." She stands still-and with just the press of my fingers to her peach-soft cheek, I'm rock hard, like I'm sixteen again, alone with my hot new crush behind the schoolyard wall.
"You never said why you're here." She's got me focused in her gaze. "I guess I'm not on my best morgue behavior. But then again . . ." She pauses. "Neither were you."
"I'm sorry. I'm doing some work for a friend who was assigned to this case. The details are confidential out of respect to the victim's family."
"Oh, so you're like . . . a private social worker?" she asks. "Or a PI?"
"Something like that." Less is more in this situation; best to deflect. "It never gets easier."
"This fucking world," she says fiercely, softly-the exact phrase that crossed my mind only minutes ago. I can't mask my surprise. There's something so unusual and intense about this woman.
I take a step closer to her; the thought rises like a tsunami-all I want is to crush her body against mine, to feel that softness, to catch the scent of her hair. The intensity sweeps through me, wild and thrilling.
I could throw her against the wall, pin her mouth with mine, hike up her dress-
She's still watching me, curiously.
"Let's get some fresh air," I say. "We don't need one more second down here." My voice is neutral-it's not a line. Honor Stone is sexy as hell, but I don't want her to think for a moment that I'm moving in on her, taking advantage of her vulnerability.
I step forward and push open the exit so she can walk through it. Outside, it's dark, and I'm late. But I don't want to leave her. Not yet.
"Where's your car?" I ask. "I'll walk you to it."
"Oh, uh, I Ubered," she says as she slides out her phone to call another ride. She's moving like she's underwater. She's likely in shock.
"I'll wait with you." The freezing wind is like a slap in the face, and all she's got on is a paper-thin denim jacket. I slide out of my overcoat, place it over her shoulders. The coat swamps her; it's so heavy I feel like she could topple from its weight. She must have rushed over here as soon as she got the call. It's a miracle she's even wearing shoes.
"Thanks," Honor says. "Wow, it feels like it could snow any minute, right?" Her teeth are chattering-she's got no gloves, no stockings. She's like the Little Match Girl. After another minute, my hands automatically move to rub her shoulders and arms.
I feel her startle and then relax.
A phone buzzes. Hers. She snaps to life as she pulls it out of her pocket, flustered.
"My Uber just canceled," she says. "Ugh, and the next guy is seventeen minutes away." She looks up at me, takes a step away. "Listen, you've been very kind, but you should probably go back to . . ." She waves a hand at my bow tie. "The grand ball . . . or whatever you came from. I'll take the bus."
I grin. "Who do you think I am, Prince Charming?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything about you," she says, her uncertainty hanging in the air like a question I'm supposed to answer.
"I'm just the guy who'll get you home safe," I answer.
Three
Honor
Six Months Ago
As I follow Strike down one long block into the heart of Shelton, I work very hard to dismiss the thought that maybe he's leading me into a dark alley to murder me.
Nah, whispers Gracie. Statistically impossible that we'd both get killed the same week. Also, Strike's too handsome to be a murderer.
Wild as it is, I hope Gracie's voice will always sound so clear to me.
But as soon as we turn the corner, back onto a main street, I see why Strike's dressed like James Bond, and I relax. The Keystone, a luxury high-rise hotel that went up last year, is having some kind of bash. It's like a Hollywood movie set right in front of me. Women in bright silks and men in tailored black-tie pose on the red carpet in front of a strategically placed graphic logo backdrop, but I don't recognize the company.
