Page 7 of The Lies We Steal

He walks towards the rest of us, keeping his riding gloves on, the only one of us with a smirk on his face. He raises his book bag up.

“Got everything, extra in case we decided on…”

“We are not blowing anything up today, Rook.” Thatcher cuts him off already knowing where he’s thoughts are headed. He holds his hands up in defense.

“Let’s go find out what the good doctor knows.” I turn on my heel, the gravel crunching beneath my boot as we walk towards the back door of the building. Rook had come by earlier, ran a little errand for his father at the D.A.’s office today.

Anything to help his dad and to unlock this door so we would have an easy way inside.

My knuckles sting with anticipation as I pull the door open carefully. Hearing Silas click the lock behind us, just so no one else follows behind. We fall in step as we make our way through the receptionist area, my heart thuds inside my chest. Metallic flavor spreading through my mouth as I clench my jaw.

What did it say about me and who I was that this situation made me exhilarated?

I can see the glow of lights, just before I press my hands into the double doors, opening them with a loud thud. The smell inside the medical examiner’s office is horrid. It clings and permeates. A cold body with a sheet pulled up to their chest.

To the left Doctor Howard Discil jumps at his desk, the chair squeaking underneath his weight. Quickly, he adjusts his glasses, trying to recover from us spooking him.

“Excuse me,” He clears his throat, trying to sound a bit more stern, “but you boys can’t be here right now.” He readjusts in his seat, eyeing us each warily.

I look over at the boys, all of us making eye contact for a brief moment, as if this was someone’s last chance to back out before we started really dirtying up our records. When no one says anything, I turn back to Howard.

“I don’t remember us asking for your permission.”

It’s quick work after that. Silas and Rook retrieve the nylon rope from the bag, securing the doctor to his chair. He struggles, hopelessly, but still struggles. Wiggling in their grasp as they wrap the black rope around his body, bounding him completely.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” He yells, his face turning an ugly shade of red.

Rook presses his foot into his back, shoving the rolling chair to the middle of the room. Staying behind the desk as he starts to open drawers and sift through papers.

I reach into my jacket pocket pulling out a pair of golden brass knuckles. The metal is cold in my palm, the heat from my skin warming them up quickly. Stepping towards Howard, I slip my fingers through the loops allowing the curved end to nestle into my palm, squeezing it tightly in my grasp.

“Rosemary Donahue.” I say still looking at the reflective metal on my hand, my initials etched into the tops of each knuckle. “You did her autopsy report, right?”

“That’s privileged information. I can’t just tell you something like that.” He argues, struggling against his restraints.

The muscle in my jaw ticks twice as I tilt my head to the left, cracking my neck.

My arm strikes forward, sudden and forceful. My hand is protected from the impact with the steel shielding it from the outside, but I can still feel the metal digging into his cheekbone.

A whoosh of air passes through us, as his head snaps to the left at the impact. A groan in pain falling from his mouth, along with crimson liquid. It splatters onto the floor, onto his shirt. I probably knocked out a tooth.

The skin where I made contact is split, bleeding from the nasty cut already starting to swell, turning burnt red.

I place my hands on either side of his chair, bending down so my face is close to his, shaking my head and clicking my tongue.

“Wrong answer, Howard.”

Something sharp, like electricity fires through my body as his eyes glint with fear.

The adrenaline of knowing he’s terrified for his life right now, makes my toes curl inside of my boots. I could live off this. His fear. I could feed on it like a hungry fucking dog.

“I’m going to ask again,” I say as I stand up to my full height, “Rosemary Donahue. Her autopsy.”

“Yes! Yes! I did her autopsy! Why does it matter?! It was just an overdose.” He yells frantically.

I nod, “Good, that’s really good, now tell me, why’d you forget to mention the defensive wounds on her body?”

Shock registers on his face, like the dots of why we’re here are finally connecting. He knows we know something. The question is, will he be stupid enough to lie to our faces?

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