“Doc’s very thorough.”

He already knew that. The autopsy reports he’d seen dotted every i and crossed every t. No surprise that diligence and meticulous attention to detail were as important to Grace during exams as they were in the reports that documented her findings.

“I don’t want to interrupt.” The whir of the saw ceased.

“You won’t be. Doc doesn’t let anything or anyone interfere with her concentration while she’s working.” Max gave him a speculative perusal. “Unless you’d rather wait outside. Autopsies aren’t for everyone.”

But law enforcement types were expected to have the stomach for them.

A spurt of misplaced pride zipped through Nate, propelled by the humor glinting in the man’s irises. “I’ll come in.”

You’re being stupid, Cox. The man gave you an out. You should take it.

Too late. Max had moved aside and was waiting for him to enter.

Fine. He’d claim a spot off to the side, as far from the action as possible.

Gritting his teeth, he followed Max through the small foyer and into the mortuary prep room, which felt at least twenty degrees cooler than the mideighties temperature outside.

“Have a seat.” Max motioned to a chair against the wall. “Unless you want to suit up like the coroner.”

“I’ll sit.” He lifted a hand in greeting to Russ, who was eating a donut.

Amazing.

But maybe after thirty years on the job witnessing thousands of autopsies, you learned to overcome any squeamishness.

“Thought you might. Restroom’s over there.” Max waved a hand toward the far wall, at the other end of the autopsy table.

Was that a smirk behind the man’s face shield?

A distinct possibility. His gut said the guy had seen right through his momentary show of bravado.

Grace Reilly spared him a quick glance as he claimed the chair. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We’ll be wrapping up in a few minutes.”

“Don’t rush on my account.”

He sat, pulled out his cell, and pretended to check email.

“No sign of a stroke or tumor.” Grace’s back was to him, her voice slightly muted by the face shield. “Everything looks normal.”

“Are you going with cardiac arrhythmia as cause?” This from Russ, who’d finished his donut and wandered over to the table.

“Yes.”

“You okay if we skip toxicology and go with manner as natural?”

In the silence that followed, the air-conditioning kicked on—and Nate’s nose twitched as the dreaded scent of formalin swirled around the room.

He stifled a groan. He should not have eaten that fast-food sausage biscuit an hour ago.

“Yes.”

Grace’s belated reply registered at a peripheral level, but he was too busy trying to hold on to his breakfast to pay much attention to the conversation.

The sights of an autopsy he could handle. The cutting and dissecting and blood—what little there was of it—never bothered his stomach.

It was the smells that got to him. Especially the preserving fluid. A scent so subtle no one but him ever seemed to notice it.