His lashes lower, but he nods before he takes a step backward. “I’ll leave this to you.” He turns and heads for the elevator. He punches the call button and disappears inside the car, leaving me kicking myself. I should not have told him about Pocher killing Mom. He’s not going to let this go or wait on me. And he’s going to get himself killed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When I die, I want to be cremated. I don’t want a stranger pumping me with formaldehyde, painting my face, and prettying up my hair, all so I can be shoved into a silk-lined casket. Not a lot of things bother me. This does. The entire process of people crying over the top of the shell of what was once a human being is just creepy. The autopsy process isn’t much different. Strangers stand around and examine what is left of a human being. It’s actually morbid but necessary, and today is no different, nor is it my first rodeo.

As I’ve done too many times before, I walk to a reception area of the medical examiner’s office, where I show my credentials to gain entry into the offices. After which, I’m allowed to travel onward to the office marked Room B as DD directed in her text. I enter a small office and then stop at a second door, where I hit a buzzer. The door pops open and I walk into the lab where a covered body rests on one of the four steel tables, the other three empty.

DD steps out of an office directly at the center rear of the lab. Today she’s wearing a lab coat over some sort of dress, I assume, since her legs are bare.

“I was just about to call and check on you, Agent Love,” she greets.

“Well, thanks,” I say. “My mom is dead and she’s the only one who ever did that for me.”

She blinks, looking confused. I’d remind myself she’s not a suspect I’m trying to throw off in some way, but I’m not so sure about anything with DD, the model who might be connected to the Society.

DD presses past her confusion and says, “I came in early and got a jumpstart on the examination but there’s something I want to show you before I go further.” She motions to the body and then walks to a station between tables, grabbing gloves from a box and sliding them into place. I don’t bother. I don’t plan on touching anything.

DD and I meet on either side of the table and she pulls back the sheet to Emma’s shoulder blades. “She was too bloody to make this out on the scene,” she says, using her finger to indicate jagged marks on Emma’s neck that look like cuts. “As I expected and stated, this wasn’t a poisoning.”