Page 54 of Uncontrolled

For a moment I stand at the sink as I fight my emotions and then Christopher’s arms come around to hug me from behind, his chin resting on the top of my head. He doesn’t bother with condolences I don’t want. Instead, he gives me the comfort he knows I’ll take, the weight of him against me, the warmth of him at my back.

“Are the shoes salvageable?” he asks, changing the subject from my aunt.

“Yup,” I say. “Always use cold water to get out blood. Peroxide over bleach because peroxide won’t break down fabric.”

“Good to know. Figures you’d be an expert in this.”

He means it as a joke, but these tricks of the trade have been second nature to me since childhood.

I open the cabinet under the sink and duck to grab a long retired toothbrush I keep there for this purpose. “You should have cleaned these the second we got home,” I chide, and his grin goes sheepish.

“Sorry. First timer.”

“Liar,” I shoot back with a small smile, if only to give him crap. After our separate showers, we’d spent most of yesterday destressing with mindless TV talk shows. I’d balled the clothes we bought off the girl into a black trash bag and chucked it into the garbage beside the house.

“Hey,” he says. “Can I ask you a weird question?”

I have half a mind to tell him no. Tennisen had been my fourth phone call today, the last on my list, and I’m mentally exhausted. “Sure.”

“Corbin. I mean, his body…we left it at the cabin. I’ve been thinking about, if… I was wondering if it’s still there.”

I turn on the cold water, run the toothbrush under it, and start scrubbing at the bloodstain on his shoe. “You want to know what they did with his body?”

“Yeah, I just thought…” He trails off. “I was the one who shot him.” He hesitates. “I keep picturing him rotting there on the floor, and I would feel better if he’s buried or cremated or something. Could you find out where he ended up? Is that stupid?”

“No, I get it.” He’s not used to death yet. Hopefully, he never will be. “Typically, there’s a go-to person in each cluster, sometimes two, and they handle when things need fixing. Body disposal, cleaning up a scene.”

“Those are the cleaners you talked about?” he asks, and I nod.

“It’s nothing sinister. Resurrections don’t work if people lie about the time or there’s severe brain trauma and massive damage to organs. The cleanup at the cabin and Jamison’s dad’s place was an isolated situation. Their job, it’s not meant to be…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Nefarious.”

He winces and I wonder if I chose wrong.

“Being a resurrectionist isn’t usually so eventful.” My brain stutters over the word—eventful—the wrong one for Sarah’s death, for what happened after, bodies and fires and bullets. Almost a full minute passes as I scrub at the shoe, add a second dose of peroxide. It doesn’t bubble, only sort of seeps in and dilutes the last of the brown to a discoloration I’m sure will come out in the wash.

“So, did they bury him? Corbin?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, the words quick and with an edge. “I can find out if—” I cut off, reconsidering. “No. It’s taken care of. Just let it go.”

There’s more than frustration in his expression, but I can’t quite place what I’m seeing. I take a guess. “Are you really asking what happened to Jamison?”

The surprise on his face catches me off guard. I was wrong. Okay, not Jamison. “His father?” I venture. “Or their house?”

The more he shakes his head, the more puzzled I am.

“Why are you so worried about Corbin all of a sudden?”

He stammers through an excuse, a riff on the one he gave before about decay and flies we saw when Jamison took us to the farmhouse. But again, it’s not Jamison or his father Christopher’s asking about. It’s the random hunter who attacked us. Is he questioning a decent burial because it was his first kill?

“How important is this to you?” I ask Christopher.

He swallows hard and then meets my eyes. “I’d like to know.”

I consider it. “Let me ask some questions.” I hand him the dripping pair of shoes as I head into my bedroom to raid the top of my dresser for enough quarters to send them through a wash cycle. “Here,” I say as I pass them to him. “Detergent is—”

“Under the sink in the bathroom,” he fills in. His mouth finds mine, the gentle press of his lips startling in their softness. A strange chill spreads through my stomach and I wonder if I’m missing something before I figure out his wet shoes have left a damp splotch on my shirt.

“Are you okay?” I ask abruptly.

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