Page 24 of Scatter the Bones

“Ahhh, efficient laziness,” I tease. “Aren’t you clever.”

He grins, unbothered, and we share a laugh then head into the parking lot.

The drive to Briarwood is short. Paul distracts me with his insistence on singing along to Megadeth’sÀ tout le mondeover and over. At least his off-key warbling takes my mind off of obsessing about Jigsaw’s silence.

“Here we are.” Paul shifts the van into Park near the staff entrance and glances over at me. “Ready?”

“Yup.”

He holds up a sheaf of paperwork. “All set.”

The scent of antiseptic and burnt coffee greets us in the narrow hallway.Could be worse.Paul stops to speak to a nurse. As far as nursing homes go, Briarwood is one of the nicer ones in the area. I still can’t imagine ever sending my father to a place like this.

“Room 209.” The nurse flashes a friendly smile at Paul. “Do you need help?”

“No, we’ve got it. Thank you, though,” Paul says, ever the professional.

“I think she likes you,” I whisper as we head toward Mrs. Beckett’s room.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yeah? She’s cute. Not sure if now’s the time to shoot my shot, though.”

“Probably not.” I steer my end of the stretcher down the wide hallway. Thankfully, it’s late. No residents linger in the hallway to watch as we remove their neighbor.

The door to 209 is shut tight. Paul twists the knob and pushes it open. The room’s larger than the average hospital room, but not by much. A tall, rectangular window looks out on a shadowy courtyard. A simple hospital bed in the middle.

And a man in blue scrubs looming over the bed with his back toward us.

Paul and I share a look. We both clear our throats.

The man jumps away from the bed, flipping the sheet up as he goes. He bends over slightly…doing heck only knows what before he turns and faces us. He’s handsome but creepy, like a waxy Ken doll come to life. Except, unlike a Ken doll, and judging by the tenting of his scrub pants, this guy seems reallyexcitedto be hanging out with the poor departed Mrs. Beckett.

“I, uh, was just saying goodbye.” The man waves his hands behind him. “She was a nice lady.”

“Yeaaaah.” Paul draws out the word and scowls. “We’ve got it from here,” he says, voice sharp and protective. “You need to go.”

The guy blinks and fiddles with his scrub top, but it’s not long enough to conceal the evidence of how much he enjoyed his goodbye. What the hell would he have done to Mrs. Beckett if we didn’t show up?

Something cold and familiar simmers inside of me. It would be so easy to find out where he lives…maybe pay him a visit. Add a piece of him to my collection.

My fingers twitch at my side.

No. He doesn’t fit my criteria. He’s vile for sure. But…no.

Murder isn’t the answer when I’m raw and restless, looking for something to distract me from my personal dilemmas.

Paul stares the man down while he slinks out of the room.

“Fucking creep,” he mutters, shaking his head.

I hurry to Mrs. Beckett’s side. She’s frail and tiny. Maybe no more than eighty pounds. The white facility sheet is tucked under her arms. Her jaw’s slightly slack, one hand turned palm-up on top of the blanket.

“I’m sorry about that,” I whisper. “We came as soon as we could.”

Paul unstraps the cot while I double-check the name on the wrist tag and the whiteboard by the bed. Standard procedure. No mistakes.

“Confirmed,” I say softly.

Together, we lift and gently transfer her to the cot. Her limbs shift under the sheet, light as paper. I drape a fresh cover sheet over her, tucking it smoothly around her shoulders. Then I fasten the safety straps—shoulders, waist, and legs. I probably could’ve done this pickup solo, but after encountering that creep, I’m glad I’m not alone.

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