She stops what she’s doing . . . no, she’s done, I think. She lays a fresh and clean gloved hand on the body’s shoulder and whispers something. I’m not sure if she’s talking to him or to herself, but she pulls a plastic sheet over him and pushes the table over to a large stainless-steel door, which she opens and disappears behind for a moment.

When she comes back, she’s alone, and I finally relax my firm grip on my stomach’s reflexes. She strips off her gown, cap, and booties, throwing them in a red bag.

Normally, I’d be all in for a striptease, but this one isn’t particularly flirty. In fact, she looks haunted and reluctant. But she bravely comes closer, sitting on the edge of her desk next to me. “You have people. I don’t. On purpose.” She says it so matter of factly about something that sounds like it hits her deep and sharp.

“They call me Drop-Dead Gorgeous,” she finally says, “or DDG. It’s a nickname.”

For some, I can imagine that might be a compliment. By Zoey’s stilted speech, I can tell it most definitely is not one to her. “A rather cruel one.”

Zoey shakes her head. “Deserved. I . . .” She pauses, pregnant with meaning, and then waves her hands around, gesturing to the room surrounding us. “I deal with death all day. It freaks most people out. I freak people out.”

“Not me,” I say reassuringly. I really, really want to put my hand on her knee that’s right there, but I don’t because I think this is the part where she tells me to get lost. “I mean, there’s always a need for a coroner, someone who sees off the dead. That’s rather noble, when you think of it that way. So, drinks?”

She blinks slowly, like she’s trying to figure out my game. But the only thing I’m playing at is getting to know her.

“Paperwork,” she corrects.

“And drinks. Maybe dinner too, because now that you’re not all gross” —I gesture to her hands, clean and pristine, with those graceful fingers that I now realize hold a scalpel with precision, not tickle the ivories— “I think I might be able to actually eat.” I cut the insult with a flirty smile.

“You’re weird,” she says with a small laugh as she examines a loose thread on the tie of her scrub pants.

“Aw, thanks. You too.”

“I’m not sure that was a compliment.”

“It definitely was.”

She doesn’t seem certain and definitely isn’t what I would call excited about this plan, but she tells me, “Hold on just a second and let me change.”

She heads for a different door, and when it opens, I can see that it’s a closet of sorts with a couple of lockers along the back wall.