She slid her car into a space in the hospital parking lot and removed her sunglasses. The morning sun stung her eyes. One of the capillaries had burst, and it was like a tiny red river that had broken its banks. For a moment, she rested her forehead against the steering wheel and considered driving home again, to the vacuum of sleep.

Her wedding ring was loose around her finger. A month ago it had been tight. Every cloud and all that. A smile ghosted across her face. Adam would appreciate the sentiment. Got to keep your sense of humor, Wild. That’s what he always said. Had said. She blinked twice and replaced her sunglasses with trembling hands.

Wildeve Stanton had not slept. The first day and night had passed in a blur of sedatives and cheap wine. But she had hated the fuzziness, the numbing blankness that smothered the pain. She wanted to feel the sharp edges, to cut herself on them. Because if she felt something, it meant she could not forget.

A car pulled into the space next to her and a nurse in a blue uniform climbed out, catching her eye.

“Lovely day, isn’t it? Wish I hadn’t swapped my shift now.” The nurse hoisted her handbag strap over her shoulder and grinned through the open car window. “Let’s hope it’s a quiet one.”

The corners of Wildeve’s mouth twitched upward into an approximation of a smile. Even now, in the very depths of darkness, she was a slave to social convention. But it was an odd sensation, the knowledge that for others the world continued to turn, that they were still looking forward to barbecues and holidays and trips to the beach. For her, there was a disconnect, an inhalation of disbelief every time she looked down at her feet, her legs, that even though her life had been blown apart into a thousand tiny pieces, she had still managed to pull on trousers and tie up the laces of her boots.

It was touching nine when she walked across the asphalt to the small building next to the MRI department, and the sun was burning the back of her neck.

The door to the Chapel of Rest was closed. Wildeve wondered if a family was waiting inside and if they were finding peace. She dipped her head. Her way of showing respect. Solidarity.

She drew in a breath.

She could do this.

She was Detective Sergeant Wildeve Stanton, investigating the latest in a horrific spate of serial killings, a professional with a job to do.

She was Detective Sergeant Wildeve Stanton, hungover and cotton wool–mouthed and full of broken bits. She covered her face with her hands. They were still shaking.

To steady herself, she began to run through procedure, as if the familiar structures of her work would hold her up and calm her.

Postmortem examination this morning. Two hours or so. How long before the coroner agrees to release the body? How many days or weeks or months before it is taken to the funeral home, before it’s prepped for the family viewing?