“Get out,” Gwen said, casually framing another shot. “If you spew in here, Edden will have a hissy.”

“Morgan!” came a faint irate shout from the parking lot. “Is that witch in there?”

The outside officer’s answer was muffled. I couldn’t take my eyes off the wreck of a body on the chair. The flies crawled among the city streets the mutilated digits made, climbing the buildings like monsters in a B-movie. Gwen’s clicks were like my heartbeat, fast and furious. Someone grabbed my arm and I gasped.

“Rachel,” Glenn said, spinning me around to him. “Get your witch ass out of here.”

“Detective Glenn,” the officer by the door stammered. “She signed in.”

“Sign her out,” he growled. “And don’t let her in again.”

“You’re hurting me,” I whispered, feeling light and unreal.

He dragged me to the door. “I told you to stay out,” he muttered fiercely.

“You’re hurting me,” I repeated, pushing at his fingers encircling my arm as he pulled me out. I hit the setting sun. It struck me like a goad, and I took a huge breath, snapping out of my stupor. That wasn’t Dr. Anders. The body was too old, and it had been a man’s ring. It looked like it had the university’s logo on it. I thought I’d just found Sara Jane’s boyfriend.

Glenn dragged me to the stairs. “Glenn,” I said as I stumbled on the first step. I would have fallen but for his hold on me. Another FIB vehicle was easing into the lot. A mobile morgue this time. Glenn, not taking any chances, was bringing everything there.

Slowly my legs lost their watery feeling as I put distance between me and what I had seen upstairs. I watched the FIB officers joking among themselves, not understanding. I was clearly not cut out for crime scene work. I was a runner, not an investigator. My father had worked in the arcane division where most of the bodies showed up. Now I knew why he never said much about his day at the dinner table.

“Glenn,” I tried again as he pulled me into the open room between the stalls. Trent stood in a corner with Sara Jane and Quen, quietly answering questions. Glenn jerked to a stop as he saw them. He looked at his father, who shrugged. The FIB captain sat before a laptop resting on a bail of straw propped up on its end. Someone had run a line from the crime van, and Edden’s stubby fingers skated over the keyboard as he played subordinate so he could stay.

Irritation pinched Glenn’s face and he gestured to the young FIB officer with Trent.

“Glenn,” I said as the officer edged his way to us. “That isn’t Dr. Anders up there.”