Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Landish, Lauren

  I won’t call them on it yet, though. “What’s up, Jeff?”

  He catches the change in tone and seems almost thankful for the return to a more professional vibe where he doesn’t have to pretend to care whether I’m okay or not.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something . . . uh . . .” Jeff stumbles over his words and looks to Alver, who recoils at the attention. “I mean, we’ve received a report about some concerning after-hours activity down here. And I wanted to follow up to make sure you’re aware that there are rules, especially where the bodies are concerned—”

  “What the hell?” I say a little too loudly, and both men flinch.

  Jeff’s hand even reflexively reaches for his gun, which is thankfully holstered with the snap in place. Are they shitting me? Alver told on me. He didn’t have the guts to talk to me himself and instead went over my head to Jeff.

  Wait . . . did Jeff say bodies? What the hell did Alver say he saw?

  Oh, God, did he talk to Human Resources?

  That sounds official, but the reality is, our HR department is Tricia Adams, and her most heinous power is in spreading gossip faster than a NASCAR winner’s race pace.

  The whole town’s gonna think I’m getting freaky with DBs on the next table. The very idea is disgusting and disrespectful, to me and to the people I try to give a proper, honorable processing.

  I turn the full force of my meanest glare to Alver, standing slowly from my chair to my full five-foot-six-inch height in my rubber work clogs. I thought he was a friend, or at least the closest thing I had to one here in the office. After all, no one else bothers to make sure I eat dinner.

  But I was mistaken because a friend would’ve simply asked me before involving the boss. Once Alver is suitably shaking in his boots, I turn my attention to Jeff, who still looks uncomfortable as hell. In fact, his cheeks are flushed pink and there’s a sheen on his forehead even though it’s a brisk sixty-eight degrees in the morgue.

  I lick my lips once and then, with ice dripping from every word, tell them both, “I am well aware of all the rules that affect me, the DBs, and my morgue. I would never do anything to jeopardize the Williamson County Coroner’s Office. I think if you ask Alver further, what he saw was a county employee who was injured on the job being assisted by a citizen. And when presented with that, Alver—who I believe took an oath to serve and protect—ran like a screaming little girl.”

  Boom . . . mic drop.

  If Alver’s gonna tell shit on me, I’ll throw him under the bus too. Petty? Fine, it is. But I need some damage control here or I’ll never be able to show my face at our one and only gas station again. And honestly, my feelings are hurt and I’m lashing out.

  Jeff glances over his shoulder to Alver. “That true?”

  Alver seems pissy about being called out. Join the club, happens to me all the time, nearly every damn day.

  “She was sitting on the table, pretty as you please, with that guy on his knees in front of her.” He sounds smug as a bug in shit.

  “He was checking out my ankle, which I turned,” I shout, my cold fury melting into righteous hot anger.

  “You cried out!” Alver growls.

  “In pain, not ecstasy, numb nuts!” I growl back. “And if you don’t know the difference, I feel damn sorry for your wife.”

  Jeff’s lips quirk, threatening to smile despite his attempt to take this whole mess seriously.

  “Let’s calm down, people.” Jeff holds his hands out, one palm to me and one to Alver as though he thinks one of us is going to lunge for the other. Honestly, he probably assumes it’d be me. Of course he does, because I’m . . . me.

  To my surprise, Jeff turns his eyes to Alver, though. “Is what Zoey said true? All you saw was her sitting on a table—pretty as you please, I believe you said—and this guy kneeling? No body parts strewn about or anything . . . ahem, sexual actually happening?”

  I harrumph at the very question, and Alver’s brows are drawn down low as though he’s surprised this is how this conversation is going.

  “I guess, but you know, she’s . . . Zoey. So . . .”

  “So, what? I’m some freak who’s having sex in the middle of the morgue?” I yell, not caring if my voice carries through the air vents to the floor upstairs. This is ridiculous. “Honestly, Alver . . . if that’s where your mind goes, that speaks volumes about you, not me.”

  Jeff clears his throat, probably wishing this were already over. “Okay, I think we’re going to file this under Office Misunderstandings and pretend we never had this conversation. Or at least I’m going to go listen to Baby Shark on repeat so I can scrub this whole incident out of my mind. You two can do whatever you need to. I’ve got to get back upstairs and finish paperwork so I can get out of here on time tonight. Martha’s going to have my hide if I’m late again.”

  Jeff makes a move toward the door, singing quietly ‘do-do-do-do-dooo, baby shark’, and Alver looks between the doorway to freedom and me uncertainly. I know he’s got several hours left on his shift, ones that will have him patrolling the building, which includes checking the morgue for suspicious activity.

  I narrow my eyes and bare my teeth in a feral smile, feigning the monster he thinks I am.

  Though I keep my threatening glare focused on Alver, I call to Jeff, “Sure thing. I’ve got a bit of work to do too, so I’ll be here for a while.”

  Alver swallows thickly, and I lurch his way, not to hurt him but to scare the shit out of him. It works. He jumps again, his feet scrambling beneath him as he tries to run for the door.

  “You’re crazy, Zoey Walker.” And with that decree, he passes Jeff and steps slowly out the door backward, as though he’s not the one who just stabbed me in the back.

  Once he’s gone, Jeff chuckles. “Don’t be too hard on the old guy, Zoey. He’s trying to stay useful because retirement didn’t sit well with him. Or his wife.”

  I shrug, feeling tired already. “Not my problem. He’s the one causing problems.”

  Jeff nods, agreeing with me. “Your ankle really okay?”

  “Yeah, it wasn’t bad. Propped it up with a little ice for the night and it was good as new in the morning.”

  I leave out the part about Blake carrying me to my bedroom. One, it’s none of Jeff’s business, and two, if he hasn’t already heard, I’m not spreading gossip about myself.

  “Good.” Jeff turns to go, easily giving me his back, and I stop him.

  “Hey, Jeff, I got the repeat toxicology report on Richard Horne. Was gonna send it up to you, but here you are.” I give him a wry look. “Here’s a copy.” I hand him a printout and his eyes scan it.

  “Tell me what I’m looking at,” Jeff finally says. “All this goddamned CSI shit gives me a headache. Give me some old school Law & Order any day. Bum-bummm.”

  “It’s not that complicated,” I assure him “No worse than a ballistics test. But basically, the two are identical. Markers for a heart attack, but the heavy metals levels are unaccounted for. No reason for him to have those.”

  “But the heart attack killed him?”

  I hedge, not willing to call it open and shut that easily. “That was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak,” I joke, giving Jeff a single eyebrow raise, “but there was definitely something going on before that. Could the two be connected? I could see it, but it’s not like it’s sure-fire.”

  “Okay, I’ll file it in old Dick Horne’s casefile.” He flicks the paper at me and turns toward the door again. “Thanks, Zoey. I’ll get out of your hair. Martha’s a’waiting.”

  He leaves, and everything’s quiet and cold again.

  All of this was definitely a distraction, but Alver’s accusations aren’t helping me forget Blake and that damn smile.

  Stay away from him, Zoey Walker, I tell myself over and over. It’s already too dangerous, for him and you. Don’t do anything you’ll regret . . . and you’ll regret it when Blake ends up in another car accident and that one’s your fault too, regardless of
whether you’re driving this time.

  Sigh, I know I’m right. The frustration is that I’m not the sort of girl who can just get her itches scratched with random, no-emotions dick. If I let Blake in, I’m going to care about him. I’m going to expose him to danger. My danger. But damn if I don’t want a bit of happy, a bit of easy, and maybe, I even want to be proven wrong. If anyone can do that, Blake seems up for the job.

  In a fit of impulsivity, I flip myself a metaphorical middle finger and grab another copy of the toxicology report and my purse.

  If Jeff can skip out early, I can too.

  In the hallway upstairs, I feel eyes on me as I leave and side-eye over my shoulder to the desk where Alver sits. He’s watching me closely but drops his gaze when he realizes I’ve caught him.

  “Goodbye, Alver. I locked up downstairs so you can stay out of my morgue with that disgustingly filthy mind of yours,” I say, pulling a look of shocked horror. His jaw drops, mouth gaping, and that’s before he realizes that Tricia is sitting at her desk, listening intently to every word.

  No telling what gossipy lies Alver told her, but at least I’ve planted the seed that it’s not me who’s the sicko, but Alver. I even add a little hint of a limp to my walk as I exit the building to really sell the story. Outside, I take a big breath and then laugh wildly, loudly and uninhibited, with zero cares about who might be watching me lose it.

  Fuck, that felt good.

  I have spent so long pussy-footing around, trying to help everyone else be comfortable and safe, that I have nearly bitten my tongue in half.

  But no longer. I feel free.

  Maybe not of the curse that haunts me, but at least of the gossip and glares having such a deep impact.

  * * *

  This is a bad idea. It’d seemed like a great one thirty minutes ago when I stomped—I mean, limped—out of my morgue and got in my car. And even on the drive here, I was sure I’m doing the right thing. Or at least doing something.

  But now, sitting in the parking lot outside the office of Blake Hale, Insurance Specialist for Everlife, I’m having second thoughts. And third, fourth, and fifth ones too. It doesn’t help that his office looks nice, the two-story professional building wrapped in white stucco and green-tinged one-way glass, with a pretty copper archway over the main entrance and beautiful landscaping.

  Looking up Blake’s work address hadn’t prepared me for this. And yes, I’m showing up to his office unannounced, something I would usually never do, but he’s done it twice now, so turnabout is fair play.

  You want to see him in his element.

  I do, curious about what a Blake Hale space looks like. Is it generic, full of abstract art that won’t offend and seats that don’t invite lingering?

  Or deeply personal, with family photos and mementos?

  Curiosity killed the cat, my conscience warns. Then I’m not the cat, he is, I answer myself, repeating the reminder that I shouldn’t get too close . . . for Blake’s protection.

  My phone dings in the cupholder, and I pick it up, half praying for a DB that I’ll have to go handle so I can leave.

  Nope, it’s Blake. I can see you sitting in the car. You coming in or what?

  “No,” I gasp, pulling the phone to my chest so I can pretend I didn’t read what I just read.

  It doesn’t work.

  Especially when I look up and see Blake standing in an open second-floor window. Even at this angle, I can see that he’s got on slacks, a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a smirk of a smile that says ‘gotcha’.

  I text back, I haven’t decided yet, and you’re rushing me.

  Blake looks at his hand, then to me again. What’re the pros and cons?

  Straight to the point comparison. I like it.

  Pros—I have information for you. I want to see you because I had a shitty day. You look good in that shirt.

  I hit send before I can delete all that because I really should’ve left it at bullet point one. Blake though laughs happily and types back quickly.

  You know I’m a sucker for new info, you tease. I’m sorry you had a shitty day, but full confession, I like that you came to see me to make it less shitty. I look good in everything.

  I can’t help it, the cockiness in the last sentence makes me grin. It’s just so Blake. No pressure to sway me to come in, no ‘you’re being silly’ comments. He’s just making me smile, letting me know I’m safe without going over the top on it.

  I swallow and type again. Cons—I hate that I came here after thinking about your smile almost all day. I don’t want anything to happen to you. I’m scared.

  Blake’s smile dims, and he looks out at me with a more serious look before replying. I’m not-scared enough for the both of us. Now come up before I have to go down there and carry you up to my office.

  I look up, and he’s serious. His hands are on his window frame, not quite leaning out of the window but clearly focused on me. He looks like he’s contemplating simply walking through the glass to get to me, which is both sinfully sexy and scary.

  “You’re on the second floor!” I yell, but he can’t hear me. Still, he waves me in, and I can see the doubt, the uncertainty of whether I’m actually going to get out of the car.

  Am I?

  He’s not-scared enough for the both of us. It’d take a lot of not-scared to balance out the fear I’m feeling.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the toxicology report and make my decision. Not for the reason I should—my own burgeoning hope or Blake’s obvious interest—but for Richard Horne. I open the door and go inside, taking the escalator upstairs, where I see Blake already waiting for me at the doorway to his office.

  “Well played,” I tease as he smiles. “I thought you’d have to carry me up real stairs. But an escalator? Well played, Mr. Hale, very well played.”

  “Hey,” he says, coming toward me as though we didn’t just have an entire text conversation just to get me out of the car, as though that’s perfectly normal. “I try.” There’s a spark in his eye, and I wonder if he’s remembering carrying me into my house the way I am. Casual as can be, he says, “You’re the best surprise I’ve had all day. To be fair, you’re the only surprise I’ve had, unless you count the chocolate chips in my cookie at lunch turning out to be raisins.”

  “You don’t like raisins?” I ask, numbly following his conversational option that doesn’t include my being oddly reluctant to come in moments ago.

  Blake smiles, shaking his head. “More about anticipation than liking. Raisins are fine, but not when I’m expecting ooey, gooey, melty chocolate and instead get chewy, wrinkled, dried fruit.”

  He feigns a shudder, and I can’t help but feel at ease, which I’m guessing was his intention because while he’s talked, he’s managed to lead me into his suite, closing the door behind us. It’s nice, more of an overgrown one-man office than a real suite, but on one wall I see a discreet doorway that probably leads to a closet or bathroom of some sort.

  Before I can get too carried away, I shove the report his way, noting with embarrassment that I’ve wrinkled it from clutching it so tightly in my hand.

  “What’s this?” Blake asks, taking it from me, then answers himself, “Oh, the second report.” He scans over it and then looks back to me. “Can you explain this, please? I mean, I see the notations for out of normal range levels, but can I get a hint?”

  I blink, stunned at his utter focus when my brain is foggy with his nearness. “What do you know about heavy metal levels?” I blurt.

  “Lead or Metallica?” Blake jokes before growing serious. He closes his eyes for a second, and I can see him searching his own mental file cabinet. He stays that way for a good ten seconds, but when he opens them again, his blue orbs lock on me instantly. “Certain occupations preclude insurance because of exposure rates. Other than occupational or environmental hazards, high levels are rare. Right?”

  I smile. “Yes. In the old days, of course, you had lead paint, but t
hat hasn’t been a thing for most folks in a long time. And Richard Horne, while he did die of a heart attack, his heavy metal levels are crazy high. Not just lead, either, but several levels. For no discernible reason.”

  “What did Sheriff Barnes say?” he asks.

  I flop into the chair in front of his desk, uninvited. “Nothing. He heard ‘heart attack’ and that I can’t prove the two are connected and basically said ‘case closed’.”

  “But you don’t think so,” Blake summarizes, sitting down in the chair next to me.

  I sigh, my eyes rolling up to stare at the ceiling. “This is gonna sound crazy, but I just have this feeling there’s more to it. For example, lead poisoning in adults can cause high blood pressure. And high blood pressure is a precursor for heart attack. Arsenic and mercury can also lead to heart problems.”

  “Or maybe he just ate too many donuts or cheeseburgers?” Blake suggests. But he shrinks when I cut my eyes his way. “Or you cross-link a heavy metal level and heart attack, and get—”

  “And you could end up face down in your breakfast,” I finish. “It’s wonky, I know. No reason in particular to link it all, other than my Spidey senses.”

  “That doesn’t sound crazy at all.”

  I glance at him to see if he’s making fun of me, but he’s looking at me earnestly, no teasing light in his eyes. “You are probably the only person who would tell me that.”

  “But you know I’m right. You call it Spidey senses, I call it intuitive intelligence. Long story short, if your gut says something’s up, it is. What’re you thinking?”

  I’m silent, letting my brain sort through ideas and possibilities. Blake doesn’t interrupt me. He sits there quietly and patiently, letting me work inside my head. Most people don’t do that. They fill any lulls with awkward conversation, making me unable to concentrate when I need to, but he seems perfectly content with watching me think without needing an explanation of what I’m doing.