Page 24 of 1st Shock
Stress, I tell myself. It's just the stress needing a release.
I don't know how to respond, everything in me riding a roller coaster of emotion, so I make a big deal out of putting my robe on and cinching it tight. "If you're staying, then you better get to work. Make me a plate of food, pour the damn wine, and watch the video."
I stomp off to my bedroom, and once inside, I hang my head and let the breath I’m holding whoosh out of me. I grab my phone from my nightstand and text Meg with shaky fingers. She's the one player in this dynamic that’ll keep me out of trouble.
JJ brought dinner. You better come over quick before he eats your share.
A moment later, she texts back.
Already ate.
Dammit.
I need you to go through the video with him. Tell him what happened.
She sends me a smiley face.
No dice, sis. You're on your own. Enjoy.
Enjoy?
I'm going to hell.
It takes a long moment before she sends another smiley face with her reply. My sister is an enabler.
It'll be worth it.
11
Meg
After a restless night, I stand in front of Avery's skull, a tissue depth marker in my hand. The vinyl nub resembles a pencil eraser and I can't resist rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. It's the first of many various depths I’ll spend my day cutting then gluing to Avery's face. Or, at least what will eventually be her face. Until we have a positive ID on this woman, this supposed Tonya who Mickey claims to have murdered, she will still be Avery.
As with all humans, each skull has certain nuances—curves, angles, widths—and tissue depth markers help me determine how thick the clay needs to be in certain spots. All this information is provided by charts containing measurements for the anatomic points. By the end of the day, I intend to have all the markers labeled and placed in the areas they belong. Once they’re all glued, I can begin the next part of the technical phase. That being placing prosthetic eyes and using the markers as a guide to begin sculpting with clay.
Mozart streams from my iPod dock and I close my eyes. Sometimes, the music settles me. Allows me to block out the myriad of office distractions—dinging emails, constantly ringing phones, Charlie and Haley's voices—so I can focus on the task at hand. With all the excitement from yesterday, it’s most definitely a music day. Even if no one has arrived yet, there’s an energy here, a foreign unease that gives me pause and forces me to continually shift my gaze to the door.
Our intruder has guaranteed one thing. I will never again work with my back to one.
I hate him for that. For making me feel vulnerable in a space I was previously comfortable in.
I glance at my watch. Seven forty-five. At any time Charlie will swoop in, calling out to me as she enters her office, dumps her briefcase, flips through yesterday's mail and listens to her messages while booting her laptop. She won't tell me about her night with JJ, acting like it never happened. All of this will be done with an elegant efficiency only my sister could pull off. She's a wiz that way. Unflappable. Me? I'd have crap strewn across my desk and my hair poking out in all directions while my mind exploded from the multitasking overload.
Mozart.
I tip my head back and breathe deeply. If Avery is to be identified, I have to shut out the noise. Focus and let intuition take over. When I'm in that zone, nothing gets between me and my subject. It's a stream of consciousness like no other. A high only attainable from the purity of working with my hands. No drug can deliver that.
Believe me, I've tried.
A few years back I got stuck on a reconstruction. It was as if my mind's eye refused to open. I became so tortured and paralyzed by my inability to work, an artist friend suggested I try a hallucinogenic he swore would enlighten my inner artist. At first, I balked. Then desperation set in and after a week of staring and making no progress, I called someone who provided me with what he referred to as a baby version of a methamphetamine known as Tik. I did as he instructed and wound up on the floor, wailing and vomiting. All while repressed thoughts of murder victims, skulls, and the corresponding emotions I've buried inside assaulted me, tore me apart with the force of a lion at feeding time and left me...gutted. Physically and mentally.
Welcome to my life.
Not my finest moment and a decision I regret to this day. No matter how many victims come through our doors, I have to protect myself. I have to learn regardless of the number of reconstructions I do, not all will be identified. I'm trying. I really am.
After that incident, I now rely on meditation—and an occasional pot brownie—to relax.
If Charlie knew about the latter, she'd lecture me for an hour. We all need something though. For her, it's JJ and his muscles. Me? CBD.
