Page 10 of Sinful Sorrow

“Preliminary…” She slowly nods, her eyes plastered to Naomi’s organs. “Yes.”

“Why prelim?”

“Because it looks obvious. It seems obvious. It probably is that obvious.”

“A horse is usually a horse,” I concur. “It’s rarely a zebra.”

“Right. But you want me to run the entire autopsy before I lock in on a C.O.D.”

“Good.” I kick one foot over the other and pray these windows won’t simply fall off the side of our nine-story office. “Keep going. We need to grab samples for the lab, too.”

“Yeah, I’ll get them.” But she casts her eyes lower, to Naomi’s swollen womb, then up and over at me. “I’m going all the way, aren’t I?”

“Yep.” I link my hands together in front of me, giving them something to do, because I so desperately want to push away from the window and take over.

But I don’t.

I won’t bring Aubree’s ability to do the job into question. Even when the job, today, is especially delicate.

“Standard autopsy means we take it all out and bag it up. The fact that she’s pregnant means we get the fetus, too.”

“Is it a fetus?” Tilting her head to the side, she picks up her scalpel, but she doesn’t cut yet. “Or is it a baby?”

“Medically? Or emotionally?” I drag my lip between my teeth and allow her time to process. To grieve, though we see death daily. Hourly. “Scientifically, a fetus is a fetus until it’s born. That’s the standard with which we work under.”

“It wasn’t viable outside its mother’s body yet.” She places her scalpel at the bottom of her original Y cut and prepares to extend it down. “The second Naomi stopped breathing, so did her child.”

“It’s not the same as that other case we had earlier this year. Melissa Boyd.”

“The one who was forced to deliver, and then murdered during, or right after, giving birth.” She glances up and searches my eyes. “You don’t think it’s kinda the same?”

“Melissa’s baby could, and has, survived outside the womb. Physically, she’s thriving despite her mother’s murder. This baby,” I study Naomi’s belly, “was still months from viability. I’m not sure how that plays into the detectives’ investigation and eventual arrest. Is it double homicide, since two lives ended? Or singular, since the baby wasn’t, technically, a viable human being?”

“I don’t know.” She draws a long breath, filling her chest and expanding her shoulders. Then exhaling again, she begins cutting. Carefully. Precision slicing, so she doesn’t puncture the amniotic sac until we’re ready. “Do you think Tim is, like… asking for a relationship? Or just a friendship where I’m never allowed to date anyone else, and he gets to control every move I make?”

I choke out a quiet laugh and watch, eagle eyed, as her blade moves over Naomi’s bump. It’s not huge. But the girl is thin, and her womb is protruding enough to create that distended shape.

“The day I think I have that man figured out is the day cows fly.” Unable to help myself, I push away from the window and head toward the table. But I don’t have gloves or an apron. So I don’t touch. I keep my arms behind my back to ensure it. “Timothy Malone is just… he’s the third of his name, Aubs. He was born to lead, and when Archer left the family, he chose him over the rest. He was raised to be…” I clear my throat, wildly conscious of the recorder still operating. “Well, you know what he was raised to be. Which means he carries a metric ton of trauma he desperately needs to work through. Except,” I find her eyes, despite the glare bouncing off the plastic shield, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I doubt very much he’s the therapy couch kinda guy. So he’s carrying all this baggage, and he’s head over heels, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you. The problem is, he considers you too special and sweet for his world. So he keeps you at arm’s length. He loves you from afar, except the times he’s near, like tonight. And in those cases, he’s not saying, ‘I love you.’ He’s saying, ‘Make sure you eat or I’ll kick your ass.’”

“This is just…” She drags her scalpel all the way down to Naomi’s pubis and stops there, lifting her blade and firming her jaw. “Love is supposed to feel good. This doesn’t feel like that.”

“Because you don’t love him back?”

“Because he doesn’t make it easy or okay. He acts like love, between us, would be a crime. At first, it felt like a gentle brush-off he didn’t really mean. Like a game, almost. A tug of war most couples enjoy, like how you and Archer do it. But now, the thought of loving him makes my stomach clench. Like I’m gonna get in trouble if I admit it. Or allow it.”

“And just when you’re coming to terms with all that, and even considering getting a coffee with the guy, he gifts you something Archer essentially describes as a forever family heirloom for the person you’ll spend your life with.”

“Except, Tim doesn’t tell me the story! He doesn’t share the significance of the gift he’s giving. So I’m bopping around with my new hair clip like a total wanker, clueless to the implications of what it means, all the way up until you’re speaking your vows. And by that point, he’s holding my hand because I’m having a mini crisis and trying to escape, while keeping my breakdown silent, so I don’t ruin your wedding.”

I snicker and try to imagine that moment from her point of view, since I was too busy participating in my own wedding to notice the chaos surrounding me. “Bet he was holding on tight, huh? Saved you from jumping into the Caribbean.”

“Crushed my fingers,” she admits. “Pretty sure my hand is still bent out of shape because of him. So that’s where we’re at. He gifts me something really friggin’ important, but doesn’t tell me the significance. Then he refuses to let me drown myself just off the coast of Jamaica. He won’t discuss the Malone family story, despite my demands to do so, but he won’t let me go hungry or unsupervised for more than twenty-three seconds either. It’s a whole mess he refuses to clean up.”

“So…” I want so badly to move to the sink and wash my hands. To sanitize, glove up, and open Naomi’s belly. But Aubree’s already working, setting her scalpel down and gently peeling skin and muscle back. “I guess you should just let him feed you,” I conclude. “He’s not asking for a relationship. Or marriage. Not outwardly, anyway. He’s just asking to keep watch and make sure you’re safe. Until he’s ready to take his head out of his ass, that sounds like an ideal situation to me.”

“You say that because you like that everyone in your life feeds you. You’ve become accustomed to being fluffed.”

“Fluffed?”

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