Page 44 of When Kings Rise

“Normally I need ID, but there's something about your request... Follow me.”

As we step into the building, I can't help but feel like we've just crossed an invisible threshold. The interior is just as imposing as the exterior, with high ceilings and long, echoing corridors. My heart races with a mixture of fear and anticipation. What are we about to discover? And more importantly, are we ready for the truth that awaits us?

The coroner's assistant leads us down a long, sterile hallway, her steps echoing off the walls, adding a somber rhythm to our procession. The air is thick with a blend of disinfectant and something else, something I can’t pinpoint. Niamh's hand brushes against mine. Her features are strained, and she does appear to be a grieving sister. I think she is imagining her own sister on a slab. I know they are close.

My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic drumbeat as we draw closer to the room, and the reality that I’m going to see a dead body that isn’t painted for the Gods or clothed for the living sets in. It will be raw, white, and appear very much dead.

We're shown into a small, stark room. The assistant pauses at the door, her face unreadable. “I'll need a moment to prepare,” she says before leaving us alone with our thoughts and our fears.

Niamh turns to me, her face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Do you think we're doing the right thing?” She whispers, her voice barely carrying across the room.

I clutch the photograph tighter, the edges wrinkling under the pressure. I glance down at the picture. The girl has the kind of ordinary face that blends into the crowd.

“We're too far in to doubt ourselves now,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “Remember, Megan ran away because of that boyfriend right before graduation. That's our story.”

Niamh nods, biting her lip, the anxiety clear in her eyes. But there's also resolve there, a determination that mirrors my own.

When the assistant returns, she doesn't waste time on pleasantries. “Follow me,” is all she says, leading us to another room, this one with a somber purpose. The air is colder here, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones.

She stops by a table that's covered with a sheet, her expression softening just a tad. “We're not allowed to do this usually, but something about your story...” She trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the cold air.

Niamh squeezes my hand, her presence a comforting anchor in the storm of my thoughts. I’m thinkingwe could just peek under the sheet and leave. I glance at Niamh, who’s watching the door.

I want to know what lies under that sheet, but it also terrifies me.

“The body... she was found wearing a tweed jacket,” she starts, and for a moment, the world seems to stop spinning.

The revelation hits us like a physical blow. As the assistant prepares to reveal the body, I brace myself, not just for the possibility of recognizing the girl from the photo but for the consequences of today.

The assistant, with a solemn nod, carefully pulls back the sheet. My heart races, but I force myself to look. Niamh, on the other hand, can't bear it. She turns away instantly, burying her head in my shoulder. Her reaction, while genuine in its horror, fits perfectly with what the assistant would expect.

The girl on the table is indeed young, her features peaceful yet hauntingly still, marred only by the stark, unnatural bruising around her neck. The discoloration stands out, a silent testament to the struggle that marked her final moments. It's jarring, and my calm façade begins to crack under the weight of this visible violence.

“The coroner is ruling it as suicide,” the assistant says, her voice steady but lacking conviction.

I can't help myself; my gaze flicks to the assistant, searching her face for any sign of doubt, and I find it. There's a hesitation in her eyes, a flicker of uncertainty.

I need her to talk. We have come this far. “She would never have taken her life,” I say. My gaze wavers with guilt at seeing this girl’s body. A part of me knows we have no right to see her in such a state.

She hesitates, glancing at the door. “It's just that... the bruising, the positioning. It doesn't sit right with me,” she confesses in a hushed tone. “But I'm not the coroner. I just assist.”

“But you've seen things that don't add up,” I press, my resolve hardening. “Things that might suggest... something else?”

She looks torn, caught between her professional duty and the truth she must suspect.“I can't say for sure. There are just... doubts. The angle of the bruising, the lack of other injuries... It's as if she was...,” she trails off, unable to finish the thought.

I nod, but Niamh squeezes my shoulder as if to tell me we have to go. The bruising around her neck speaks of a struggle.

The sheet is placed back over the girl, and the assistant steps away.

Niamh lifts her head from my shoulder, her eyes red but determined. “What do we do now?” She whispers, her voice barely audible.

“We find the truth,” I reply, my voice laced with a newfound determination. “For her and for all the Megans out there whose stories don't end as neatly as they're told.”

The assistant returns to us, chewing her lip. Lowering her voice to a whisper. “There was skin found beneath her fingernails,” she divulges, glancing nervously around as if the walls themselves might be listening. “The coroner tested it and claimed it matched her own DNA. Said it wasn't from an assailant.”

I process her words, the implication sending a cold shiver down my spine. The absence of scratch marks on her body—it doesn't add up. She hadn't been clawing at herself in a frenzied attempt to escape some inner torment. No, she had been fighting for her life, grappling with a very real and external threat.

“She didn't scratch herself,” I mutter, more to myself than to Niamh or the assistant. “She scratched the person who killed her.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, a vile truth hidden beneath layers of convenient lies.

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