Page 9 of Melancholia

“I’ve got this,” I say again. Being as reassuring and normal-sounding as I can. “I’ll call Adele if I don’t.” But I can’t imagine a situation that would require me to call the police chief, outside of the corpse reanimating itself and trying to snack on my brains.

He lets me hang up just as I lock my door behind me with my hands full of my phone, keys I’ve fished out of my pocket, and headphones. Luckily, the coffee shop is still open, and I swing by to grab my usual drink—iced brown sugar oatmilk espresso—before ducking out and heading to my car. Hestia barely looked awake tonight, prompting me to wonder what’s got her so tired, but I don’t have time to stop and chat. Not if the coroner is already at or getting to Kindred Pines soon.

I make the normally fifteen-minute drive in eleven—perks of the late hour—and pull up to see a large white van parked beside the loading dock. With my smaller car in my usual parking spot, I get out and jog over to the man smoking near the van, not really surprised to see Coroner Jenkins standing there with a frown on his face like he’s doing the world a favor by doing his damn job.

“Finally,” he gripes, glancing at me. “No Cecil tonight?”

“Nah. He’s out of town. But I can get this taken care of.” For a moment, I don’t think Jenkins believes me. He looks me over once more with a disapproving, scrunched-nose glare, before snorting and stomping out his cigarette.

“Whatever. Your problem, not mine. I was told to reroute bodies to Philly if they normally would have come here this week. But”—he shrugs big, square shoulders that remind me of an old linebacker’s—“lady said he had to be brought here. Something about a family tradition and Philly not being kind enough. It’s a dead body,” he continues to complain. “Who the fuck cares about kindness?”

I do.

The dead deserve just as much respect as the living, but I’m not about to argue with a man whose hair doesn’t even want to inhabit his head. His fleshy jowls give him a very mastiff-like appearance, and the way the loading dock lights reflect off his balding head is…unflattering, to say the absolute least.

“I think we all hope that someone shows us kindness when we die. Just as a courtesy,” I say lightly, unable to keep my opinions to myself.

Jenkins grunts. “Course you do. You’re a woman.”

Men aren’t lonely enough. The thought comes unbidden, but I don’t voice it. Instead, I only give him my most empty customer service smile before gesturing toward the doors of the loading dock. “Could you help me get him inside?” The rain pounds down around us, splattering the asphalt as it drains off the roof above us. “Quicker it’s done, the quicker I can sign off for you.”

And the quicker you can go home, I don’t add, even if I’m sure we’re both thinking it. He wants to leave and I very much would like him to. Jenkins makes another noncommittal grunt and hoists himself away from the van, taking his ignoble bulk to the back doors he swings open while I go to unlock and lift the loading dock door.

Given his shitty attitude about death and his lack of athletic ability, Jenkins is surprisingly efficient. He has the body in its zipped-up black cocoon of vinyl out of the van and into the mortuary quicker than I would’ve thought possible without Cecil here to lend a hand. When it’s done, he stands there, watching me with cold eyes as I make the appropriate notes on the intake form and sign off on it.

“All right. You’re all good.” When I hold out the paper he needs to prove he got the body here and to me, Jenkins plucks the clipboard out of my hand with a flourish and a stupid little salute.

God, I’d love to smack him over the head with the clipboard. Out of the three coroners who have come to Kindred Pines, Jenkins is by far my least favorite, and it isn’t a close competition; Jenkins has everyone beat. But he finally leaves, after making a few more comments that I let go in one ear and out the other, and the mortuary is quiet, with only the hum of the HVAC and the buzz of the fluorescent lights above me for noise.

But that’s why I brought my headphones and charged them in the car. When I’m alone, I feel no shame in slipping them on with the connecting loop resting under my ponytail at the back of my head. I press down on the power button in front of my right ear until I get the little beep and the tinny voice in my ear that says power on, connected in a polite tone.

Before I touch the body, I pick up the coroner’s report, scanning it for any relevant information about Andrew Elliot.

Twenty-two.

He was only twenty-two when he decided he just couldn’t do it. I don’t know the family. I don’t know anything about him, or if he’d been struggling with this for long enough that someone, anyone in his life could’ve been there to pull him back out. With a 302, if that’s what it took.

After all, that’s what it took for me.

After I look over the report again, I set it down, and as my music plays in my ears—a surprisingly upbeat club remix playlist—I make sure all of my tools and supplies are in the places I want them. Cecil and I differ on organization, and when he’s here, we obviously follow how he wants things. But since he isn’t here, I’ve been able to arrange Kindred Pines my way. At least a little. In small ways that will be easy to change back the moment he’s back here. But for now, the face wipes are within easier reach, and the eye caps sit right at the front of my little line of supplies, rather than being holed up in a cabinet where I have to go dig out a new box every single time I embalm. It’s a stupid, small thing. But it itches something inside my brain that feels like I can be more efficient at this if things are just set up right.

Maybe it’s just a me thing.

Unzipping the body bag once my gloves are on, I carefully tug it free from the body, staring down at the twenty-two-year-old male. There are rope marks on his neck, bruises from strangulation, and he’s shirtless. Mild Rigor has set in, making him stiff as I move down to pull off his black sweatpants that boast a fancy designer label. Under them, he’s wearing actual silk boxers that look just as new as the sweatpants, which feels off to me.

Who did he dress up for? The coroner? Me? The person who found him?

But I just shake my head and fold the clothes up carefully before putting them in a bag that will eventually be handed over to the receptionist so his personal items can be returned to his family.

Over my music, thunder cracks outside. Sharp and loud enough that I jump a little, my hands jerking as I seal up the bag.

“Great night for this,” I grumble, as if this isn’t my almost every-night routine. Of course it had to storm like this at some point. I’m sure Cecil barely notices the weather anymore when he embalms. But for me, the newness hasn’t worn off just yet. The thunder and flashes of lightning feel intentional, atmospheric, and like some kind of movie soundtrack to my work as I turn Andrew’s hands, his legs, then his shoulders to look for any marks.

Two tattoos.

Three old piercings, and I’m a little surprised to see a relatively freshly healed one on his navel.

No wounds except the marks from the rope. According to the coroner’s report, there wasn’t a suicide note. No reasoning for anyone still living to explain why he’d do this.