Page 25 of Scatter the Bones

As we pass the nurse’s station, the woman we spoke to on our way in lifts a hand in a polite wave.

Paul slows the stretcher to a stop. “I’m going to talk to her.” He lowers his voice. “Give her a heads-up about Mr. Creepy-pants.”

I shudder at the memory. “Go ahead, I’ll get her loaded into the van.”

“You sure?”

“If not, I’ll text you.” I hold out my hand for the van keys and he passes them to me without question.

Outside, the air’s chillier, more ominous than before. The stretcher rattles as I navigate over the rough pavement.

The back doors of the van squeak as I open them wide. I engage the ramp, then guide the stretcher inside, and lock the wheels in place. I check that she’s secure, my fingers lingering on the buckle of one restraint.

“You’re in good hands, I promise,” I whisper. “My family will take care of you.”

I shut the doors and double-check the latch before stepping and turning toward the building. The lot’s well-lit and silent. No sign of Paul yet.

I pull out my phone and check my texts.

Nothing from Jigsaw.

“You all right?” Paul’s voice slices through the quiet.

My body jolts and I shove my phone in my pocket like it’s contraband. “Yup. How’d it go?”

He jerks his head toward the van, his footsteps soft against the pavement. His gaze flicks toward the building behind us. Can’t blame him for not wanting to broadcast his dating life all over the parking lot.

He glances in the back, gives a small nod, and climbs into the driver’s seat without another word. Doesn’t double-check the restraints. Doesn’t even glance at the straps. Paul knows I did it right.

I slide into the passenger seat and toss him the keys.

“Sooo?” I prompt, buckling in. “Did you ask for her number?”

He starts the engine, his expression unreadable for a second, then a slow smirk tugs at his mouth. “Now that you’ve found love, you sure are a matchmaker.”

Isn’t that a kick in the stomach.

I stare straight ahead. “Sure, that must be it,” I say, voice flat. “I can’t just want to see my cousin happy?”

“I’m kidding, Margot.” He reaches over and pats my leg. “Actually, I told her about Happy Pants guy. She was really upset. They’ve complained about his behavior before, but the owner of the facility doesn’t seem to care.”

Hmmm, escaping justice is one of my criteria. Maybe I should reconsider putting him on my list after all.

“Figures.”

“You know I hate that shit,” he grumbles. “The dead can’t protect themselves.”

We both do. And unfortunately, that wasn’t the first time we’ve walked in on someone treating a body like an object instead of a person.

“I know,” I say, my voice quieter than before.

Paul taps his thumb against the steering wheel. “She gave me the owner’s number. I’ll probably pass it off to your dad—he’s got more pull. Maybe it’ll actually go somewhere if he’s the one to lodge the complaint.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Anyway,” he says, easing out of the creepy conversation, “I didn’t even have to ask for her number. She gave it to me. We’re supposed to get together next week.”

“Oh good!” I clap my hands together and bounce in my seat like a child. “This week is nuts. Hopefully things are calmer next week.”

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