Page 15 of Dead Love
“How dare you imply I—” Andrew started, then stopped. “I read the reports.”
“And do you ever check the bodies before they come to Quiet Meadows?”
“Now why would I need to do that when I trust my coroner?”
“There’s a pattern,” I said. “Looks closer to a knife wound than a car crash injury.”
“I trust our coroner. He’s a good man.”
“Is Bill one of your friends?” I asked. “Must be nice to be given a government job.”
“We are a separate government entity,” Andrew said sternly. “Nepotism is against policy.”
I tilted my head, studying Andrew. We were both tall, but where he was thin and fit, I had more bulk to my muscles. White hair, blue eyes, completely different from my brown hair and black eyes. He was an officer that lived by the rule book, the exact opposite of me. I had been to detention centers a fair amount of times as a teenager, even overnight as a young adult, but Andrew had only ever been in jail to lock someone up.
“You know what I find strange, Erickson?” Andrew asked. “You see, your brother—what was his name?” He cracked his neck like he forgot when I knew that asshole had memorized my brother’s name. He loved using it against me. “Justin. Right. Well, Justin had a peculiar thing about his situation too. He was drugged—”
“Shot the heroin himself,” I corrected.
“But there were knife wounds too.”
“The coroner determined it was suicide.”
“Yeah, and yet these kids—” he said, tilting his head. “Drugged too.”
“Or they took it themselves.”
“You know, I was good friends with Miss Nyla, and she never took me as the devious type.” He shook his head, his expression pained. “And, if what you are saying is true, that they have knife wounds? Then that’s like your brother.”
My jaw clenched. This was bullshit. “My brother killed himself,” I repeated.
“According to the reports.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “You trust your coroner, don’t you?” I scratched my chin. “And isn’t it convenient for these deaths to be right around Sheriff Mike’s reelection, right when he needs a cause to rally his voters behind?”
“Convenient for you too. Being that death careisyour business.”
Andrew had a point; business had been better than ever. But I shrugged my shoulders.
“Check the reports,” I said. “Then come by Quiet Meadows and check the bodies yourself. There’s a pattern I’d like for you to see.”
“Like I said, I trust my officials to work according to our good law.” He tipped his imaginary hat. “As you should too, Erickson. We are all simply doing our jobs.”
I chuckled to myself. As I was doing mine.
Back at Quiet Meadows, I finished my tasks for the day. Once the evening settled in, I went to my studio. Each space on the wall was covered with a painting: the curve of her neck, her pouting lips, her eyes gazing at me. Most of the paintings were in black and white, created to look as if they were done with charcoal, but were actually a combination of acrylic paints and abandoned cremains. And there were a few rare dashes of color, a deep blue. The color swirling in a portrait of her at the viewpoint, the moonlight on her cheeks, the trails of tears running down her face.
Using the ashes and acrylic mix, I dashed the brush across a blank canvas, creating her form in the middle of that vast field. The broken petals in her palms. I loved mocking her for her pain, but I knew firsthand that it was hard to lose someone you loved, especially when that was the last person you had in the world.
In the backyard, the firepit was unlit, the extra freezer storage humming almost as loudly as the insects. In the darkness, red fruit shimmered like a deep purple wine on the dark mountainside. I went through the woods, finding my favorite tree, then tapped on one of the fruits. It made a metallic, hollow sound. I ripped it off, carrying it with me.
I went to Rose Garden Neighborhood, where the Novas lived. Naturally, it was one of the nicest communities in Punica, with a vine-covered archway leading inside. The plain bushes in the Novas’ front yard shook in the wind. I slunk into the backyard, using the latch on the side gate like I had many times before. The sheriff was too confident to lock anything. It was a pity, really. I would have enjoyed the challenge.
The rose bush across from Kora’s window had been removed recently. And this time, she was sleeping on her side, facing the wall, as if she couldn’t bear to look out her open window and see the blank space. The windowsill was full of young plants, drooping slightly. I stepped over them, my shoes landing faintly on the floor. A bowl of plain yogurt and granola sat on her desk; she usually finished her evening snack. Dried flowers were strung up on a long branch of driftwood against the wall, other dried flowers pressed in tiny glass frames. Trinkets and pretty knick-knacks of all kinds covered her walls and counter spaces. A white comforter with a giant red carnation printed on the fabric was pulled tight over her shoulder, the bedspread accented with red and green blankets. To the side of the room, a few plants hung from the ceiling, their vines dangling below, and another large window with dividers showed the fence to the side of the house.
Her shoulders heaved slightly, then a whimper came from her throat. She wasn’t asleep at all; she was crying.
I placed the pomegranate on her windowsill next to one of the potted plants, letting my boots make more sound than usual. Kora turned over, and as her eyes cast upon me, realizing that I wasn’t a shadow, but an actual figure, she sat up quickly.
