“Tell me you didn’t go to Highland Heights.”
I straightened my neck and set my shoulders back defensively. “Don’t. Don’t play macho policeman. If that’s Mindy in there, then they found her in that neighborhood in an abandoned house. If it’s her, I needed to see it. I need to find out who did this. That’s what I do.”
“If, Stella. If is the imperative word. You’re putting the cart before the horse.” His mussed, dark-blond hair failed to hide his furrowed brow as he repeated his question, slower this time. “Did you go to Highland Heights alone, without telling anyone?”
I knew that telling someone where you’re going—leaving a trail—was rule number one, but rules were meant to be broken. Sometimes moving on instinct didn’t allow for time to check in. Not appreciating his interrogation, I shook off his grip. “I just drove around, all right? I didn’t get out.”
“Christ, are you trying to turn up missing too?”
I’d never, in all my adult life, answered to anyone. This relationship—or whatever it was—with Dylan was still in its infancy. We were still working on our boundaries, and he’d just crossed one of mine. With heat rising to my face and my jaw clenched, I replied, “I’m not having this conversation with you in the hallway outside of the morgue. Why are you here, anyway? To lecture me on safety? Because right now I’m safe, but whoever the hell is on that table isn’t.”
Dylan’s gaze softened. “No, I didn’t come here to lecture you. I came because last time you did this alone. I didn’t want you to do that again. I know how upsetting it was for you. I hope to God this isn’t Mindy, but if it is . . .”
I sighed. “I appreciate that, I do. I just don’t need lectures right now.” I let out another long breath. “Seeing dead bodies never gets easier, at least not to me.”
“No, it doesn’t. Each one, no matter what they did or what happened to them, was a person, someone’s kid.”
Or sister, or brother, or best friend.
Dylan once again grasped my hand. “Let’s get this over with. They’re ready for us.”
I held back my tears, steeled my resolve, and nodded. Together we walked through the doors and entered the cold room, cold both in temperature and personality. The buzz of the lights combined with the offending odor threw my nerves into overdrive. Dylan’s hand became a vise as I took in the surroundings. It was the same as it’d been a week earlier, with cement walls, tile floors, and tables and countertops made of a shiny, disinfected metal.
A young, thin woman entered from the other side of the room at the same time that we came in. I barely noticed her as I concentrated on the body, lying on a table near the far end of the room, a silhouette covered with a white sheet.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll skip all the formalities and make this as quick as possible,” the young technician said.
Biting my lip, I nodded.
“We only need for you to give us your impression. You don’t need to look any longer than necessary.”
I nodded again, fearful that if I spoke I’d taste the strange aroma hanging in the air.
“It’s not too late,” she continued. “If you’d like to go to another room, we can do this via closed-circuit cameras. You don’t have to be in here.”
Though bile bubbled in my throat, I released Dylan’s hand and straightened my stance. “I assure you, if this is Mindy, I do need to be here. Please continue.”
The young woman grabbed the edge of the sheet with her blue-gloved hands and slowly lowered it. Panic ran through me when I saw blonde hair, blonde like Mindy’s, like mine. Next I saw eyes, their lids partially closed, hiding their color. Did this body have the same pale eyes that Mindy and I shared? The cheeks were bruised in various shades. And then the tech lowered the sheet past the nose and mouth and I knew. I knew.
“It’s not her. It’s not her.” Relief crashed down as I leaned against Dylan’s tall frame, grasping his bicep to keep myself from falling. The worry that had propelled me toward the body had evaporated, leaving me physically weak.
The body before us was now uncovered to just above her breasts, with her arms visible, giving us a full view of the plethora of injuries marking her skin. Whoever she was, she’d lived through hell and died there. The relief that washed through me left a sickening trail of remorse. I was thrilled that this wasn’t Mindy, but, as Dylan had said, it was still a person, someone who might or might not have had a family. Someone who might or might not be missed.
How did she get to this table, to the house where she was found? What is her story?
And what about Mindy?