In the living room, I get my favorite blanket, the extra-fluffy one I gave Holly for Christmas two years ago, and curl up in the corner of her sectional couch with three huge pillows to make a nest of heartache.
I hear Holly get Olive set up with a one-millionth playing of Frozen and then she sits down next to me on the couch, a tray of steaming pizza rolls and cookies between us. I hit play on Legally Blonde, the movie we watch every time one of us has a breakup. Except it’s always Holly. It’s never been me.
Until now.
I bite into a too-hot pizza roll, wanting the burning pain of the liquid fire in my mouth. It’s nothing compared to the agonizing hurt in my heart. And I don’t mean the heartburn the shitty food is going to give me.
* * *
It’s late when I leave Holly’s, or it seems like it because Olive went to bed hours ago, but she’s only five with a bedtime of eight thirty. Since I’m a little older, it’s hours until sleep has any chance of taking me into its slumberous relief, and I can’t imagine going home and reliving my humiliation again by telling Jacob what happened today.
So I go to the only other place that brings me any solace.
Work.
I’ll lose myself in the cold morgue, spend some focused time on paperwork, concentrate on deep cleaning every inch of every surface, and time will hopefully fly by.
Or maybe I’ll get lucky and get a call! Scraping up body parts from a car accident would definitely distract me.
Wishing someone death so you have the distraction of a DB isn’t exactly professional.
I sigh, telling my inner responsible self to shut the fuck up. I’ll take anything that pushes Blake and his betrayal from the forefront of my mind. I turn the light on in the morgue and step into the closet area to change into scrubs. The frigidness of the room doesn’t even register anymore, especially when my insides are solid ice.
Stoically, I begin sorting and organizing the files on my desk. I stay pretty caught up and am naturally neat and tidy, so it doesn’t take nearly long enough to get my workspace in tip-top shape.
With a sigh, I look around for something else to tackle. After a short internal debate, I decide the refrigerator could use a good mopping. I drag the mop bucket in from the hallway closet, filling it with hot water and bleach from the sink in the corner, and then push it into the even colder space.
Back and forth, I push the mop in even, straight lines across the floor, letting the punishing work build up a sweat at my brow despite the room’s temperature. Wringing out the mop for another swish over the floor, I hear something in the morgue just outside the refrigerator.
“Alver? I don’t need or want dinner,” I say, poking my head out with an evil glare already fixed in place. He’s the last person I want to deal with tonight, especially given that he probably heard about my running out of court this morning and will gloat in my pain before disappearing to spread it around the gossip grapevine with malicious glee.
But Alver’s not in the morgue.
No one is. I look around but see nothing amiss.
Back in the refrigerator, I mop and think—a dangerous combination.
As mad as I am at Blake, I can’t let go of Richard Horne. Like Jeff, I feel a responsibility to tell my DBs’ stories because they deserve to share their truth. But I don’t know what else there is to discover or how to investigate, especially since Yvette is now on alert and the clock is against Jeff.
We found the poisonous supplement, but it’s not enough. We know how Yvette likely gave it to Richard, but it’s not a smoking gun because like Jeff said, Horne could have been taking the supplements himself, unaware of the damage he was doing.
I hope Jeff really is as good at investigating as he says he is because I’m at a dead-end.
I hear the unmistakable sound of a desk drawer opening and closing in the morgue and growl at the interruption.
“Alver. Get the fuck out of my morgue,” I shout, but when I peek out, there’s no one there again. I think I’m losing my mind for a moment and look around in confusion. Realization dawns and I sigh. “Jacob, I’ve had a really shitty day and I’m not in the mood for one of your pranks.”
I half expect him to pop out and say ‘gotcha’ when I jump, but nothing happens. “It’s not funny tonight.” Still nothing. “Fine, but I’m not playing these games. I’ve got work to do, so I’ll see you at home later.”
I inject as much mom-tone to my voice as I can, channeling Holly’s no-nonsense manner. Unlike Olive, Jacob doesn’t readily fall into line. Understandable since Olive’s five and Jacob’s eighteen, but I’m too exhausted to deal with him tonight. I spin on my heel and disappear into the refrigerator once more, hoping Jacob will slink away. I’ll apologize for my bitchy mood later, but for now, all I can manage is mopping and thinking.