Drop Dead Gorgeous

“That’s the wife, Yvette Horne,” Jeff continues, lifting his eyes toward the blubbering woman.

“Hmm.” She does seem rather upset right now, but the image of her sitting calmly and watchfully hasn’t disappeared from my mind. That didn’t seem like shock but more like a high school drama kid realizing they missed their cue and launching in full bore.

But she’s not my concern right now. The body of Richard “Dickie” Horne is.

There isn’t much else to be learned right now, so I finish my assessment, double-checking my list even though it’s an automatic habit after doing this job for so many years. I’m the coroner in the county, so literally every body comes through my morgue.

It’s a heavy responsibility, one I was taught to take seriously.

“All right, I’m done for now. Let’s transport.” Jeff nods and waves a hand at the paramedics, who’ve got a body bag and gurney waiting. If we were a full-service unit, we’d hire specialists, but out here, we all do double-duty. Paramedics sometimes hurry live ones to the hospital, and sometimes, they move my DBs to the morgue. They come close, wearing ponchos and full protective gear because you never know what’s going to happen when you move a body. Sometimes it’s clean and easy, and sometimes it's . . . not.

And that’s all I’ll say about that.

I stand up, giving them space. “Take him in. I’ll meet you there.”

The senior paramedic nods. “Sure thing, Boss.”

Outside, the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Birds are even chirping. It seems like the sort of day where nothing bad could happen. But I think Mr. Horne would disagree with that assessment.

Maybe Mrs. Horne too. Her overly dramatic wailing echoes in my ears.

Before I get in my car, I go over to pet Rusty on the head, rewarding him for being calm, cool, and collected now that there’s not a stranger in his yard. “Yeah, I didn’t like that guy, either,” I tell the dog, who’s downright purring like a kitten under my palm.

At least dogs like me.

Chapter 2

Blake

Traffic. I hate traffic.

More than 38,000 people die in car accidents in the US each year. And yet, people take it in stride while freaking out over a couple of dozen people choking on gummy bears or something similar. I won’t be one of them—the car accident victims, not the gummy bear chokers—even though I’m running late. But that’s my fault for not expecting an overflow of cars out here on the rural highways surrounding the city.

Are we stuck behind a tractor with a maximum speed of twenty? Or maybe a big truck hauling a double-wide trailer?

I mentally cuss my sister out again, wondering if this crazy idea of hers is truly worth driving all the way out here. But I keep my hands at ten and two, radio on low, and eyes on the cars in front of me, alert for brake lights. I creep along, making barely any discernible progress until . . . finally, the roadway opens up and we start moving.

Pressing down on the gas, I keep my eyes fixed on the Mitsubishi Mirage in front of me, wondering why anyone would drive the number-one most unsafe car on the road. Sure, it’s cute and pink like an adult version of a Barbie car, but no way would I put my wife or daughter behind the wheel of a go-kart on a highway filled with Hummers and monster-truck-sized SUVs.

Not that I have a wife or daughter, but the point remains the same. The Mirage doesn’t even have the safety features of similarly sized cars in its class.

Unfortunately for me, I’m so distracted by the bright pink monstrosity, my mind running through all the facts and figures about the Mirage, that for the first time in my life, I somehow miss something vital.

I forget the fact that while I might be going a safely legal fifty-five, this is a country highway. A highway with turn-ins.

The dark shape comes out on my right side, and I jam my brakes, but not fast enough. There’s just enough time for my heart to jump into my throat before a sick crunch, and time slows down.

I’ve read about this, but time really does seem to stretch into slow motion. I can see my passenger door start to cave inward and can feel my car start to skew sideways. I tell myself to let off the brake, allowing the tires to connect to the asphalt and letting me yank the steering wheel into my slide, trying to regain control.

I feel my seatbelt lock and start to dig into my collarbone, and an instant later, the world goes white as my airbags deploy. My head bounces off the side curtain bag, and my body is jostled around for a moment before I come to a stop.