Page 118 of Skeletons in the Closet

“Fuck him,” Costa said. “Tell him you got into a fender bender and smacked your face on the steering wheel. He won’t look into it. Trust me. I know Davenport. He’s a lazy ass. He can’t fire you for being involved in an accident.”

I chuckled. “Thanks. Good advice.” It didn’t explain my two days off for a migraine, though.

“And Az and Torin will keep your name out of it,” Quaid added.

“I appreciate it.”

I was waiting for a lecture about my decision to get involved with Diem, but it never came.

The pair didn’t hang out for long, and when they left, I clicked back to the newspaper tab on the computer. Ten minutes into browsing the entertainment section, a thought hit me, and I jolted upright.

“Whoa, hold on…” I shut down the newspaper tab and opened the social media searches I’d done on Beth, Olivia, and Noah the other day, scrolling frantically to find the one picture I remembered seeing.

It took an age to locate, but when I did, I stared at it for a long time, slotting a new idea into the puzzle to see if it worked.

“Holy shit.”

I snagged my phone and called Diem. It was after eleven, but he answered with a groggy grunt. The man was likely still asleep since he’d been up half the night.

“Hey, it’s me. Do you have a contact at the hospital?”

Another grunt—this one of affirmation—was followed by a yawn.

“Good. Call them. I need them to look into something for me.”

Then, I explained my theory.

26

Diem

Tallus’s phone call and theory were like a bucket of cold water over the head. It blasted me awake and, in an instant, erased any grogginess from my sleepless night. I hung up with my mind spinning around what he’d said.

My hospital contact wasn’t reliable. He was a mortuary assistant with a notorious drug problem, which meant he was happy to take my fifty bucks in exchange for information—if he could get his hands on what I needed. It also meant he was constantly at risk of losing his job, so there would come a day when I would call him up and he wouldn’t be working there anymore.

I texted, asking if he could meet me in the alley behind the hospital in an hour. Relief washed over me when he replied he would be there. I did a quick cleanup in the bathroom, scrubbing my face with water and brushing my teeth before fumbling to the bedroom area of my apartment to find fresh clothes. I didn’t have time to venture to the gym for a workout and shower.

The bed was made—a sure sign Tallus had spent the night, and I hadn’t dreamed it—and his scent was everywhere. It ratcheted my blood pressure to the max as I revisited the anxious night I’d spent on the couch, doing all I could to coach myself into joining him.

In the end, I’d failed to convince myself. Worse, I’d walked to the corner store, bought cigarettes, and relapsed in my attempt to quit. Again.

The pack was on the coffee table, and I had half a mind to throw them away, but the cravings were back in full force, and I knew I wouldn’t. One more. Maybe two. Then I’d toss them and start again.

Jaxson Buren was a wiry man in his midtwenties and a shithead to deal with. The minute I saw him behind the hospital, twitching at quarter past noon, I knew my fifty bucks wouldn’t cut it. I was convinced the only reason the man still had a job was because his patients were deceased and couldn’t complain that he came to work tweaking half the time.

The head coroner was a stiff-collared man in his late fifties who likely didn’t care what Jaxson did in his spare time, so long as he showed up every day and took care of the grunt work the coroner didn’t want to deal with.

Jaxson’s shirt had pit stains and was rolled to the elbows. It looked like it needed a wash, but again, his patients weren’t complaining about a bit of body odor. Or his greasy hair. Or the scraggly beard he was trying and failing to grow. They couldn’t. Besides, they probably smelled and looked worse than Jaxson—but not by much.

He greeted me with a tip of his head. “Krause.”

I held out fifty bucks.

Jaxson stared at the pink polymer bill but didn’t take it. “Tell me what I’m doing first.”

“I need to know if a guy named Noah Willard was treated in the emergency room on October thirteenth in 2010. Or any time around that date. Can you do that?”

“2010?” He whistled. “That’s a while ago.”

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