Page 34 of Uncontrolled

Reaching forward, I sort him out and then drop a motherly pat on his shoulder. “Make us proud,” I say.

CJ charges ahead. One of his shoes is untied, the laces flopping. Unless this goes off the rails, the kid’s on his own. Sink or swim time.

Inside, the musty air smells sour. The dead girl is spread out on the floor, one arm looped above her head, auburn hair splayed in a half circle, picture perfect. Beside her left cheek is the source of the smell, a congealing puddle of sick.

I note her presence only to prove the legitimacy of the job, then take a quick scan of the room, something CJ should have done immediately. Older man. Disheveled. Probably her father. Pacing. Framed photos are on the wall. The same man, younger, posing with a fish. Beside it is a picture of the dead girl. She’s in a dress, locks curled and piled atop her head, at a junior prom maybe, her smile shy.

On the side table, in a silver frame, is what I’m after, a shot of them together, father and daughter, at least ten years old, Christmas tree in the background. It doesn’t prove this isn’t hunters setting us up, but it gives a bit of credence to the call. Then again, it could be photoshopped.

I hear CJ asking about medical details. Hear him ask about drugs, which is what I would have assumed at his age. Experience taught me better. Teenage girls don’t overdose in their living rooms. They hide behind locked doors, wait until any responsible adults present have gone to bed, are found cold in the morning.

It’s 11:10 p.m. on a Tuesday. It took us almost forty-five minutes to get here. I add in the time for Talia to get the call, arrange payment terms, collect CJ, then me. Whatever took her life happened in this living room at around nine p.m. Next to the picture on the table is a liter of ginger-ale, an empty glass, and an oversized bowl perfect for someone who was nauseated and too sick to reliably reach the toilet to puke.

Seizure brought on by a fever? I think absently. Maybe she choked?

“She’s been home with the flu the past two days,” the man says. “When she started shaking I didn’t know what to do.”

Satisfaction tips a tiny smile onto my mouth.

From the spot where he’s kneeling beside her, CJ looks up at me. I expect fear. Instead, he nods once. He doesn’t hesitate as he rolls the girl. She can’t be more than a year older than him, close in age. They might have dated in another life. His fingers sweep her airway. He shakes chunks of puke onto the floor, wipes his hand on his shirt, and digs into his bag.

“He’s professional,” Talia says in a hush from where she’s observing just behind me.

I nod. “Didn’t scope out the scene, though,” I whisper back.

We watch in silence as CJ sends the father into the other room for paper towels and a bowl of warm water, using the time he’s gone to stealthily draw a syringe of blood from his arm and inject it into the girl’s heart. When the man returns, CJ has already cleaned the area and gathered his used supplies in his backpack. A minute passes. Then another. CJ slides two fingers to the dead girl’s neck, resting on her pulse point as he waits for her to resurrect.

At my back, Talia’s presence eases closer. “Remember your first supervised solo run?”

I don’t answer her.

“God, I was terrified,” she says. A soft chuckle escapes her. She waits. “You pissed at me about your date night?”

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest, occupied with what’s transpiring on the floor. “I’m observing.”

She sniffs. “I’m trying to give him a chance for you.”

“Who?” I ask, refusing to be distracted. It’s been four minutes, each stretched into an eternity. The girl shows no signs of stirring.

“Ploy.”

At his name, I do turn.

“After you bolted at my place, he and I damn near had a Hallmark moment.” Talia bites at the edge of a fingernail. “I mean, I told him to leave you, but still…”

“Yeah, well,” I start and then stop myself. I don’t want to tell her not to bother. I’m going to fix things with him. I just need time. Of course, Talia takes my answer all wrong.

“Trust has to be earned,” she says. “Like, how I earned the right to be informed you’re having panic attacks. Or how you’re not sleeping because your nightmares are that bad.”

Apparently the two of them did have a heart-to-heart. About me. I’m about to lay into her when the sound of raised voices draws my attention.

“Sir!” CJ yells. He’s gotten to his feet. “Sir, please. I need you to relax.” He ducks again and gives the dead girl a hopeful shake. She flops, lifeless.

The old man’s bent-kneed as if he’ll attack. “Don’t you touch her, you monster!”

The moments before a resurrection takes are volatile. Whoever called us is traumatized. They just saw their loved one die. Their rational brain is dipping into the possibility that this is some sort of sadistic joke.

This job is par for the course.

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