Page 61 of Hide and Seek
The janitor seems to linger longer than necessary, and every time he wanders close to me, I grip my trusty pen, more than ready to plunge it deep into the side of his neck if need be. Hiseyes on my back are unsettling, and I’m pissed off that I can’t focus on my work at all.
Now I know I’ve done some questionable things over the past few days, but dropping to my knees for a man like this? Absolutely not. He’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s about to get something out of me.
My computer screen goes into sleep mode, the dark screen allowing me to see everything behind me like a mirror, and just as the janitor sweeps back around toward me, the soft beep of the morgue doors sounds through the room.
I let out a heavy breath and relax my hold on my pen as the big doors open. The coroner walks in with two gurneys being pushed by hospital staff, two police officers, and one of the newer detectives I haven’t had a chance to get to know.
“Double homicide,” the coroner says as the bodies are delivered onto the autopsy tables.
I give him a tight smile, still feeling awkward with the janitor loitering, but I put it aside, certain I don’t need to be concerned now that there’s a room full of people, three of those being cops.
I move in beside the first body as the detective hands over a file and launches into an explanation of the murders, and just as expected, he follows up his summary with the typical declaration of just how quickly I need to prioritize these autopsies.
I nod and give false promises just like always, but honestly, there’s something that seems exciting about these cases. I glance at the clock on the wall as the cops and the hospital staff file back out of the room, and seeing that I have just enough time to get both of these autopsies done and will have time to write up their reports before the end of my shift, I reach for a pair of gloves.
The coroner is just walking out as I reach for the zipper at the top of the body bag. The janitor pauses in the middle of the room, gaping at me in disgust. “The fuck? You’re not going to do that shit while I’m here.”
Having had enough of this asshole, I pull the zip right down to expose the body. “You’re in a morgue. This is what we do,” I tell him, not even bothering to look up as I reach for a scalpel, despite not even being close to needing it yet, but he doesn’t need to know that. “If you can’t handle it, there’s the door.”
I glance up to find his face scrunched and pure evil reflected in his eyes as he grips the handle of his mop like a weapon, and so I simply open the body bag wider, watching as his face turns an uncomfortable shade of green.
“If you don’t mind,” I say, bringing the tip of the scalpel to the victim’s chest, despite him still being fully clothed. “I need to get started.”
The asshole gags, and I roll my eyes as he bails on whatever fresh bullshit he was about to throw my way. He races out of the morgue with his cart dragging behind him and his tail tucked between his legs in shame.
I scoff. What a loser. I just hope that Vincent will be back tomorrow.
Having a little peace and quiet, I put the scalpel down and get to work properly, removing the body from the bag, and as I take in the victim’s face, I pause, my back going stiff.
“No,” I breathe, my eyes widening in horror, seeing the face of the man I was dancing with in the club the other night, still wearing the same clothes that rubbed up against my body, the same clothes I spilled my cocktail on.
Horror blasts through me, and I quickly search the body for any signs of trauma, trying to figure out what the hell happened to him. When I saw him last, he was perfectly fine. He was going to the men’s room with the idea that he was about to get lucky.
How the hell did this happen?
My stomach sinks at the realization that my DNA will be all over his body, and there’s no doubt that, sooner or later, the detective will come knocking at my door to ask questions. I don’tknow what the hell I’m going to tell them. The last time I saw him, he was perfectly fine.
I get started, documenting everything as I go and making sure not to miss a thing. I remove his clothes, placing each article in its own evidence bag before setting it aside and getting started on any jewelry or foreign objects attached to his person.
Heaviness pulses through my chest, recognizing the familiar cuts across his skin. They’re not quite as vicious as the ones I saw on the previous body, but there’s no denying they were created by the same weapon and delivered by the same hand.
This was the work of my stalker.
Bile rises in my throat, but I keep going, certain that there will be a message left behind, but where? I try to put my personal feelings aside, being professional with every second of this autopsy, and yet there’s a sharp pang of guilt resting in my chest. This man is dead simply for dancing with me in a club.
Tears form in my eyes, but I blink them away, trying to be strong. I won’t fall apart. I can do that when I get home. Right now, I have a job to do.
I get to work, documenting every wound on his skin, measuring the length, depth, and width of each one, and as I work my way down the front of his arms, I see strange burn marks on his palms.
My brows furrow, and I lift the victim’s hand to get a better look, and I find the palm of his hand completely singed. “What the fuck?” I breathe, taking it in with unease, not able to make sense of any of it.
My gaze continues over his arm, and as I look further down his wrist, I notice that the cuts are deeper, more purposeful, and I can’t help but flip the victim over to get a better idea of what’s going on here. As I look over him, I start making out little letters in the vicious carvings, and my stomach knots with dread.Writing down each letter at a time, first down his left arm and then the right, I come up with two lines of words.
His hands were burned to a crisp simply for having his hands on me as we danced. It’s my fault. I knew he was there watching, and I used this man to tease him. I let him touch me, let him grind against me as I tried to gain a reaction out of my stalker.
This man lost his life because of me.
I can’t hold back a second longer, and the tears finally fall when I remember the second body that was just delivered. The coroner mentioned it was a double homicide, and that snippet of information makes my stomach jolt. A double homicide could only mean . . . fuck.
