Page 12 of Melancholia

“But she’s already demonstrated the bite isn’t self-inflicted. Is it fresh?” she asks, looking at me. I don’t even hesitate. I nod.

“Fresh enough that I’d say it happened around when he died. We’d see signs of healing if it was from before that, I think.” I’m not exactly a coroner or a doctor, so I can only give my best estimation.

If Cecil were here, he could give more accurate times and numbers. He’s been doing this long enough that I’m pretty sure he’s seen everything when it comes to death and dying.

He would’ve known instantly if this was worth calling Adele over or not. Part of me wonders why I didn’t call him first. I’m sure he wouldn’t have chewed me out for waking him up. He probably would’ve asked for pictures and talked me through a plan.

That would’ve been the better option, I tell myself, a little displeased at my hasty actions. But I don’t have a choice but to stick with them now. So I stand there, stiff and anxious, with my arms folded over my chest and the tongs hooked over one finger.

Jenkins continues to rant, listing all the reasons it isn’t his fault and how the injury isn’t relevant. He and Adele go back over the crime scene, discussing it in detail. The lack of signs of a break-in or any defensive wounds. The lack of a note, though Jenkins insists they don’t always leave a note.

“You don’t even care that much!” Jenkins snaps finally. “Name me one person in town other than his goddamned mother who will lose a wink of sleep over him being dead!”

Adele turns an icy, unfriendly look on him that could freeze lava. I swear if she were looking at me like that, I’d be apologizing on my knees and looking for a way to make things up to her immediately. Even Jenkins seems to realize he’s made a mistake. He looks down and away, shoulders hunched.

“It’s probably nothing…” My words pull both of their attention back to me, though I’m not so sure that’s a good thing right now. “But I also noticed that he was wearing brand-new, really nice clothes. At least his pants and boxers. I don’t know if it’s relevant or just something he did anyway, but…” I roll my shoulders in an anxious shrug. “It seemed like he was expecting to make an impression?” But what do I know? I’ve only tried to kill myself twice, and neither time was I that concerned over what I was wearing.

Not that I’ll say that part out loud. Ever.

They proceed to argue about that, too. Eventually, I just go about my work, or at least the parts of it that don’t require me to go near the body. Listening to Adele tear into Jenkins is cathartic, though I finally end up looping my headphones back over my ears to focus on my work.

There’s no point in trying to keep up with a conversation that I only have partial context for. And I doubt either of them wants any more of my opinions about Andrew Elliot, who lies on the table between them like he’s asleep.

Finally, Adele seems to win their argument. When Jenkins throws up his arms, I glance at him, drawn by the movement, to find him glaring over at me like I’ve personally ruined his night.

“You’re not a coroner, Miss Collins,” he scolds coolly. “And I’ll thank you to stop pretending to have my job.”

“She’s not trying to take your job, Jenkins,” Adele snaps, stepping in before I have to do more than stare at him in surprise and indignation. I’m sure there’s a comeback somewhere in me, but I’m too surprised by all of this to find it.

Is this a dream? Part of me is sure it has to be. I’ve never had a night like this, and I’m suddenly sure I’m actually dreaming, still asleep on my bed in my apartment above the coffee shop. There’s no other explanation for the way the mortuary has gotten so exciting when it has no right to be.

“Sorry,” I can’t help but murmur, when all I can hear is my breathing and the little whooshes of the sheriff sending off messages while Jenkins steps out to make an angry call.

“Hmm?” Adele glances up at me. “For what?” She seems actually perplexed, like she can’t imagine why I’m apologizing.

“For causing a scene. It’s probably nothing, I know. I feel bad getting you up and dragging him out of bed.” Though I don't really feel bad about that part, I just feel bad for us having to deal with it.

Adele shakes her head and sends one last message before shoving her phone into her pocket. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Nell,” she promises me with a hand suddenly on my shoulder. My arm twitches, fingers curling as I fight not to move back from her touch like I normally would. It isn’t her fault that I’m not a fan of being touched casually like this. And she has no way of knowing. Plus, she’s just trying to comfort me.

“I’d rather we’re overly thorough than the opposite. Jenkins can actually do his job tonight and look over Andrew’s body to see what he missed. And if there’s nothing to find, then Andrew will be back here tomorrow for you to finish up.” As I watch, she checks for her keys and heads for the door with a last smile back at me.

“And if he finds something?” I can’t keep the question out of my mouth. Sheriff Miller takes her time making sure everything is in its place: phone, gun, handcuffs, and finally turns to glance back at me over her shoulder.

“Then you’ll hear about it with everyone else on the news.”

5

Idon’t leave the mortuary, though I absolutely should. I’m not scheduled to work at Kindred Pines tonight, and I could go home and go back to bed to attempt another round of sleep before the sun wakes me up.

But I don’t.

I stay; waiting for Jenkins to remove Andrew Elliot’s body from the table. I help a little, though he scowls at me the whole time, and the last thing I see is the paler skin around Andrew’s middle finger on his right hand, like he’s missing a ring he always wears. My glove strokes along the paleness before he’s zipped into the body bag. As he’s shoved into the back of the coroner’s van, Jenkins mumbles something I refuse to listen to and Adele leaves with one last glance back at me that’s concerned and caring all at once.

“I’m fine,” I reply, answering her unspoken question. “I need to clean up, then I’ll head home for the rest of the night. Try to, I don’t know, salvage some sleep?” I doubt I’ll be doing that, but it satisfies her, and I’m left standing alone on the loading dock. Waiting for something that won’t appear tonight. Or any night, really.

My heart seems to throb harder than usual against its cage of ribs, and I sigh as I stare out at the darkness of the small town of Still Pines. This late—or early—I can’t see any lights on. No one is moving around or driving down the lonely street that’s more suburb than town.

I’m alone again.