Page 61 of Dirty Liars

“I know,” he said, cutting me off gently. “I’ll have Cole and Martinez with me. We’ll be fine.”

But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he was choosing his words to avoid alarming me. Jack never downplayed danger unless he was truly concerned. This was the part about being a cop’s wife I hated, knowing when he walked out the door it might be the last time I saw him.

“What about Vivica?” I asked. “Did she make it to the airport?”

“The plane just took off,” he said. “My deputies said there were no issues. It was a smooth transport.”

I nodded, relieved that at least one potential victim was out of harm’s way.

“Emmett was the weak link,” I said. “He’s just a kid. No private security.”

Jack grimaced and I knew it weighed on him. “You heading to the funeral home?”

“I want to get started on those autopsies. Max Ortega and Derek Rogan should be pretty straightforward, given the obvious cause of death, but there might be details we missed.”

Jack leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Call me if you find anything. And Jaye—” his eyes met mine, serious and intent, “—be careful. We still don’t know who’s involved in all this.”

“I’m going to be locked in my lab with two dead bodies,” I said, attempting humor. “I think they’re past doing me harm.”

Jack didn’t smile. “Promise me you’ll keep your phone on you. And lock the doors.”

“I promise,” I said. “Now go find Emmett.”

He kissed me again, lingering a moment longer than usual, his hand cupping my cheek. When he pulled away, his eyes were dark with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.

“I love you,” he said simply.

“I love you too,” I replied, watching as he headed for the door. “Both of us do.”

That earned me a smile before he disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

I sat in the quiet of our bedroom for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of Jack moving around downstairs—keys jingling, the distant murmur of his voice as he called dispatch, and finally the soft thud of the front door closing. The Tahoe’s engine rumbled to life outside, and then faded as he drove away.

The house felt emptier without him, larger somehow, even though I knew Doug was asleep a floor below me. He wouldn’t be up for a while—Doug and mornings didn’t exactly go together. I rubbed my arms against a chill that wasn’t entirely physical and forced myself to stand. The nausea had subsided to a manageable level, and I had work to do.

* * *

The funeral home parking lot was empty when I pulled in just after seven, my Suburban the only vehicle apart from the other Suburban parked under the portico, ready for Victor Mobley’s funeral later that morning. I made sure to park where Sheldon could still get the body loaded and lead the procession to the grave site.

The funeral home loomed against the brightening sky, its red-brick façade and white columns picture perfect. I waved to the Hendersons, an elderly couple who faithfully sat on their front porch across the street every morning, rain or shine, watching the town wake up. Mrs. Henderson lifted her coffee mug in greeting, and Mr. Henderson tipped his hat. Their presence was comforting, a reminder of the normal, everyday world that continued to exist alongside murder and cults and mysterious tattoos. How strange it must be to live in that ordinary world.

I unlocked the side door and walked into the mudroom, leaving my bag hanging on the hook. I stuck my phone in the zipper pocket on my sweats because I promised Jack I’d keep it on me. But the reality was I never checked my phone when I was in the middle of an autopsy, and I could go hours without taking a call or a text. I decided the best compromise was to wear my smartwatch so Jack didn’t worry, but even then I was a little apprehensive. I never wore jewelry during an autopsy. Sometimes things fell into open cavities and you had to fish them out. Ask me how I know.

The chill of early spring still lingered in the air, and the building’s old bones creaked and settled around me as I stepped inside, locking the door behind me.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I’d spent countless hours alone in this building, and yet this morning, the emptiness felt different—heavier, more watchful.

I shook off the feeling and went into the kitchen, my footsteps echoing on the tile floors. I filled the electric kettle for more tea, the metal spoon clinking against ceramic as I measured out loose leaves. While I waited for the water to boil, I pulled up the blinds to let light into the room. The morning sun glinted across the island and the glass cake plate that had held fresh muffins the day before. Emmy Lu wouldn’t be in until nine, but she always brought sweet treats with her.

The kettle clicked off, and I poured steaming water over the tea leaves, inhaling the delicate scent of chamomile and mint. With the warm mug cradled in my hands, I began my usual morning routine—checking the day’s schedule, reviewing paperwork, making a mental list of everything that needed to be done before opening at ten.

Victor Mobley’s funeral was the only service scheduled for today, a small graveside ceremony at eleven. The Hells Angels had cleared out yesterday, leaving behind a surprising lack of damage and an even more surprising thank-you note for our hospitality. Sheldon had been inordinately proud of how well he’d handled the outlaw bikers, though I suspected they’d simply been amused by his nervous enthusiasm.

I made my way to the viewing room where Mobley’s casket sat, its polished mahogany gleaming in the soft light. The viewing room was peaceful, with cream-colored walls and tasteful floral arrangements flanking the casket. I checked that everything was in order—the photos displayed properly, the guest book placed on the antique table by the door, the funeral programs stacked neatly beside it.

The lid of the casket was closed for transport, but I opened it to ensure everything remained perfect after the somewhat rowdy visitation yesterday. Victor looked peaceful, his leather vest and rings in place as his family had requested. I adjusted his collar slightly, brushing away a stray bit of lint from his shoulder.

“Looks like you’re all set for your final ride, Mr. Mobley,” I murmured, closing the lid with a soft click.

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