He slid out of his patrol car as the officer walked toward him from the shadows of the protective roof that shielded the back door of the building. Over the man’s shoulder, Nate squinted at the victim, who remained near the exit, purse gripped in front of her, posture taut. Though he couldn’t distinguish any features in the dim light, she appeared to be on the young side.

“Matt Jackson.” The fiftyish officer stuck out his hand.

Nate gave it a firm shake and returned the introduction. “Thanks for responding. I got here as fast as I could.”

“No worries. It’s a quiet night in town.”

“What do we have?”

The man gave him a cursory overview. “I poked around after I got here, but I didn’t see anything helpful.”

“Thanks. I’ll take another look. Two sets of eyes can’t hurt. Who’s the victim?”

“Grace Reilly.”

It took no more than a second for her name to click into place. He’d seen it on a few autopsy reports—including one that had struck too close to home—but their paths had never crossed.

“What was she doing here at this hour?”

“Paperwork.”

“On a Friday night?”

The man shrugged. “To each his own. Said she was prepping for an autopsy tomorrow.”

Must be the one for Mavis Templeton. He’d responded to that call yesterday morning, and there’d been no other suspicious deaths in the past few days.

“Anyone else here?”

“No.”

She’d been alone in a mortuary with a dead body after dark. By choice.

He suppressed a shudder. After all the death he’d seen during military missions overseas, the idea of spending an evening in the company of a lifeless body shouldn’t spook him.

But it did.

Having death thrust upon you was one thing. Seeking it out? Not his cup of tea.

“Thanks again for swinging by and hanging out until I got here.”

“Happy to do it. Good luck.”

As the officer returned to his cruiser, Nate circled Grace’s car, giving it a cursory scan. It had been keyed on all door panels and sported several small, deep, round dents—as if someone had hammered the end of a pipe against the frame.

Circuit complete, he walked over to her, extending his hand as a low rumble of thunder reverberated in the distance. “Nate Cox. I’ve read quite a few of your reports. Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”

“Likewise.”

Her fingers were cold as she returned his firm squeeze, and he gave her a quick assessment.

Early thirties, at most. Five four, give or take an inch, using his six-foot frame as reference. Wavy, longish hair the color of the spicy ginger cookies his mom used to make. A strong chin that could suggest a personality to match. Hazel eyes that were big . . . and appealing.

He frowned at that last, inappropriate thought. Cataloging a victim’s features was part of the job. Reacting to them wasn’t.

Switching mental gears, he refocused. “I know you told Officer Jackson what happened tonight, but I’d appreciate it if you’d run through it again.”