Page 6 of Stay in Your Lane!

I stiffened. Male voice. Sounded non-threatening. Sounded lucid.

Cautiously, keeping my hand near that unzipped pocket, I moved back up the hall.

“Hello?” he called out again like a dumbass in a horror movie. “Anybody here?” Did people have zero survival instincts anymore?

Jesus. You would go right into the dark basement, wouldn’t you?

On the other hand, my truck was outside. It was a safe bet the“anybody here”would be me or someone else in my profession. Still, the victim had apparently been involved in drugs. Sometimes that meant dangerous people showing up to scour the scene for any stray pills or granules of something potent. Ask me how I know.

“Is anybody here?” he called out again. “Hellooo? Is—Oh!”

He stepped into my view, and suddenly we were face-to-face, staring at each other like I’d stared at that family of racoons. No one was hissing so far, which was a plus.

And…

Not gonna lie, survival instincts or no, he was kind of cute. He was a white guy like me, maybe two or three inches taller with that gym bro build tucked into a tight T-shirt and snug jeans. His hair was long, and he’d either gotten highlights or spent some serious time in the sun. Could’ve been either or both, given the tan.

And he was standing in my crime scene without a stitch of protective gear.

I shook myself out of my startled stupor. “What the hell are you doing in here? Don’t you know this is a—well, it’s not a crime scene, but it’s a death scene!”

“Oh, I know.” He nodded. “That’s why I came back.” He lowered his voice a little. “I think itisa crime scene.”

The urge to roll my eyes and tell him to get the fuck out wasn’t as strong as it should’ve been. It wasn’t nearly as strong as the urge to glance at the pizza slice on the coffee table.

Something prickled along the length of my spine.

I opened my mouth to ask what he was thinking, but then I remembered the scene had been turned over to me and my company, which meant I could be liable if this guy inhaled a stray fentanyl particle or tripped over his shoelaces or something. Especially since a downward glance revealed that one of his Chuck Taylors was, in fact, untied.

I huffed into my respirator. “Let’s go outside. And tie your damn shoes.”

“Tie my—” He looked down. “Oh. Shit.”

Then he crouched, and I waited patiently (sort of) while he tied his laces. I was annoyed—by his presence, by the delay—but at least now he wouldn’t step on his laces and go ass over teakettle down the porch steps.

Once he was securely shod, we went outside and down the steps of the tiny porch. That was when I noticed the car that had parked next to my truck. And I used the word “parked” loosely—the gravel driveway didn’t have stripes indicating parking spaces, but most people would at least try to pull in parallel to the next vehicle, right?

This guy’s car was at almost a forty-five degree angle to my truck, with the passenger side front tire perched precariously on top of one of the railroad ties surrounding the tiny lawn. Behind the car, in the blanched glow of the floodlights, the gravel had been disturbed in that way that suggested a high speed and not very controlled turn. In fact I was surprised I hadn’t heard him come skidding in, but I did get pretty hyper-focused when I was working.

I eyed the car, then the stranger. “Did you… drift into the driveway or something?”

“Huh?” He glanced at his car, then chuckled and gave a dismissive shrug. Before I could ask which cereal box he’d pulled his driver’s license out of, he gestured at the trailer and repeated, “I think this is a crime scene.”

I sighed, pulled off my respirator, and pushed back my hood. It was too muggy out, even this time of night, to be wearing that damn thing if I didn’t have to. “How do you figure?”

“I—” He paused and did a double take, staring at me.

“Um.” I shifted under the scrutiny. “What?”

He stammered a little, reminding me of my fish, though he wasn’t sporting the menacingly sharp teeth they had. Then he shook himself and cleared his throat, and though it was hard to tell in the porch light, I though the might’ve blushed.

“The scene,” he said again. “I—there’s something weird about it.”

So it wasn’t just me.

“Okay, but what are—” I flailed a hand. “Who even are you? How have you had access to the scene?”

“Oh!” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Everett Mulligan. My family owns Mulligan’s Mortuary Services. I was the one who picked up the body.”

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