Page 45 of Red My Lips

The Medical Examiner’s office is a large, daunting concrete atrocity. The idea of walking in there is depressing in itself, but the potential of what I might find once I’m in there has my stomach in knots.

Tommy.

Not knowing what happened to my brother feels like Chinese water torture—a constant picking in the back of my mind that’s slowly tearing a hole through my psyche. I force myself to suck in a deep breath and let it out heavily as I pull myself together.

Ready or not, here I fucking go.

Pushing open the door, I climb out of the vehicle, ready for war. I’m mentally bracing myself for any outcome, but I’m not sure it’s actually working.

“What are we doing here? You have a fetish for men with tags on their toes?” The deep voice that speaks just over my shoulder sends a shiver down my spine. I turn to look at Gage, where he stands leaning against my car.

Damn, I must really be in my own head if I didn’t notice him walk up.

I roll my eyes, but the look I flash him doesn’t carry its usual lethal sharpness. “I’m here because I got a call from the Medical Examiner. There’s a John Doe that matches my brother’s description. They want me to see if I can identify him.”

The chances of this unidentified man being my missing brother are basically zero, but knowing that doesn’t diminish the gut-wrenching fact that there’s still a sliver of a chance that it is him.

“Is that so?” Gage’s tone sounds as skeptical as I feel. He gazes at me for a moment, reading the nerves written all over my face, then gives a short nod. “Alright, let’s go see a body.”

The fact that I allow him to take me by the hand and lead me toward the building without protest or retort tells him just how rattled I am. He gazes down at me intently when I check in at reception, his eyes burning a hole through my already cracking psyche while we stand in the bleak waiting room.

Gage’s dark eyes don’t stray from me for a single second—even when the medical examiner, Dr. Maynard, comes to show me back to the post-mortem examination room. The white-haired British gentleman glances nervously at the man looming behind me like he’s death himself, finally come to claim his soul.

The exam room is depressing and sterile—with sad linoleum floors, harsh fluorescent lighting, and cold steel equipment. There’s a large metal table in the center of the room where a body lies covered in a white sheet. The knot of dread in my stomach tightens with every step I take until I’m standing right beside the table.

“He was found in a ditch along the highway, we suspect a hit-and-run. There’s a lot of swelling, especially in the face, which might make him hard to identify. Dental and DNA have been collected, but the labs are always backed up, so those results could take a while,” Dr. Maynard says, his posh accent softening his delivery. “John Doe is a white male, early to mid-thirties, six feet tall, dark brown hair, green eyes.”

Anxiety wraps around me like a noose when he reaches for the top of the sheet, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest as I struggle to remember to breathe. The doctor pauses for a moment to look at me, and my entire body tenses. “Ready?”

Am I ready? What kind of question is that?

What if it’s him? My brother—my older screw-up brother who constantly let me down—could be lying dead under this sheet. His cold, lifeless body could be lying on this table. Alone and unclaimed. He was a bastard, but he didn’t deserve to be mowed down, run over, and left for dead.

This could be Tommy.

Then, at least, I’ll finally know what happened to him. That’s what I want, right? Answers? If I have to walk out of this godforsaken dump without some sort of closure, I’m going to lose my shit.

I hesitate.

It’s only for a moment, but the silence rings through the room, making the seconds feel like minutes. A strong hand at my side reaches for mine, intertwining our fingers with a reassuring squeeze. I don’t have to look at the tattooed hand giving me comfort to know it belongs to the man at my back, his gaze burning a hole through my temple. I’m tempted to look at him, but if I meet his all-seeing eyes, I might not be able to hold it together. I’m barely keeping my shit together as it is.

“I’m ready,” I say finally, the steadiness in my voice belying the turmoil wracking through my entire being. The older man lifts the sheet and folds it down, revealing the disfigured remains of a man to his collarbone.

A toxic cocktail of relief and disappointment washes over me at the sight of the man—a complete stranger. His hair is about the right length and color, and the damage to his face should make it impossible to know for sure. But something in my gut tells me I’m not looking at Tommy.

“It’s not him,” Gage says, too quietly to be talking to anyone but me.

“Do you have his personal effects?” I ask, dragging my eyes away from the body to address the Medical Examiner. Dr. Maynard nods and walks over to a bin sitting on the desk against the back wall. Pulling out a large plastic bag, he walks over to give me a better look.

My eyes scan the contents of the clear evidence bag, my focus bouncing from each of the personal items. A handful of change, a tarnished gold ring, a used tissue, and a pair of broken sunglasses.

“It’s not him,” I state, certain.

“Are you sure?” Dr. Maynard asks, encouraging me to take another look. But I nod.

“I’m sure. This isn’t my brother.”

There’s no paperwork to sign, and I don’t bother with pleasantries before I’m charging out of the godforsaken room in search of air.

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