Drop Dead Gorgeous

There he is!

I see Sebastian’s truck ahead and slow back down.

Don’t get spotted.

I’ve never been more thankful for my nondescript, bland sedan. I follow at a distance, noting that we’re heading out of the city and toward the surrounding areas. In fact, this is the same way I would go to visit Zoey, which supports the idea that Sebastian is heading to Yvette’s again.

As we get further out, traffic disappears and I have to drop back even more, but I see him turn ahead. I’ve been on this road, not too long ago, in fact. Sebastian’s truck turns into Yvette Horne’s neighborhood. It’s small enough that there’s no way I can follow and not be spotted, so I pull over to the side of the road and turn my hazards on.

I take some deep breaths and consider my options. Is there any way I can go down that street and verify where Sebastian went without getting caught?

I can’t walk in because I won’t leave Chunky in the car. I can’t drive in because with the way the neighborhood is, I’ll have to go slow, increasing the odds of being seen.

“Damn it,” I hiss, and Chunky whines in the backseat, his tongue going crazy as he tries to comfort me from afar with his licking kisses. “It’s okay, Chunkster. I’m not mad at you. I’m frustrated because there’s no way to make this happen and I don’t like giving up without succeeding.”

He barks in response, and I cut my eyes to the mirror to see his reflection.

“It’s not a failure,” I argue. “I learned a lot about Sebastian . . . and the smoothies . . . and his relationship with Yvette. I just can’t confirm that’s where he is now, but it’s not likely he has more than one client in that small neighborhood. Right?”

Chunky licks his lips, Scooby Dooing the better part of his snout. I take that as agreement.

“Okay, let’s go see Zoey and tell her what we learned.”

Chapter 19

Zoey

I stare at the stainless-steel table in front of me, covered with wrinkled and pressed paper instead of a dead body. It’s honestly more challenging than a body.

Pull it together, Zoey. Examine the edges and put matching ones together like a puzzle. You like puzzles.

God, my pep talks haven’t improved in the slightest. It doesn’t help that I’ve been staring at these tiny bits of paper for hours. After Blake, Jacob, and I went through Yvette’s trash, I couldn’t help but think we might’ve missed something.

There was just so much of it, and though he was helpful, Jacob was being so dramatic about the gross factor that I didn’t feel I’d given it the full breadth of an appropriate examination. So I brought it to work and dug through each stinky, disgusting bit of it again, spreading it out on the tables in the morgue under the bright fluorescent lights.

As it turns out, I was right. We did miss something.

This time, I found a handful of torn up paper. It could’ve been junk mail, an old bill, or even scribbled notes. But as I flattened each tiny piece out, trying to figure out what I’d found, I noticed a logo in the top corner.

A quick internet search told me that it’s an internet pharmacy that specializes in folk medicines. And now, I’ve got most of the paper put together. But there are still a few key pieces that don’t fit.

“One at a time, tackle one piece at a time,” I tell myself.

“Who are you talking to? There’s not even a dead body.”

I jump in surprise, used to the quiet and solitude, and find Alver standing in the hallway across from my door. “You scared me!” I exclaim, adding, “What are you doing down here?”

He might as well be sneering ‘I’m not in your morgue’ like a toddler ‘not touching’ their sibling even though their finger is mere millimeters from contact. Instead, Alver’s face scrunches up and he pinches his nose. “Ugh! What’s that smell? Is that trash?”

I sniff the air, not smelling anything. I’m used to all sorts of smells in my line of work, but trash is different from decomposition so you’d think I could smell that.

But nope . . . nothing. Alver’s probably just being dramatic again.

“I’m working. Can I help you with something?” It’s a clear dismissal, and I think, a solid attempt at avoiding answering his questions.

“Drop-Dead Gorgeous, you are a sick, strange one. I’m getting Sheriff Barnes.”

He turns and runs, or as close as he can get to running, though it’s more of a skedaddle than anything, toward the stairs, looking back over his shoulder as though he expects me to chase him.

Newsflash, this isn’t a horror movie where the cheerleader ends up being the serial killer that lured everyone to the old, abandoned building. Not that I was ever a cheerleader, or that the morgue is abandoned. Oh, and I’m definitely not a serial killer, no matter how much Alver gets on my last nerve. How did I ever think he was a friend?