by Loretta Lost
But isn’t it just as brutal out here? Isn’t it far more brutal, being closer to the equator? Why does the sunlight feel so kind out here, when it’s beating down on you just as much, or even more than it does up north? It’s all an illusion. Our bodies deceive us, with their feelings of comfort and complacency. But this world is just as violent and harsh as my world, or my brother wouldn’t be lying motionless in a morgue.
When we arrive, Zack pays the Uber driver and puts a hand on my knee to alert me to the fact that we are at the hospital. I have been staring angrily at the palm trees, and the clear blue sky, and everything deceivingly beautiful about this place.
“Do you want me to carry your backpack?” Zack asks.
I roll my eyes. He asked me this several times at the airport, as well. The backpack contains Cole’s letters, in addition to everything I need to live, and I am not parting with it. Zack suggested we check into a hotel first and drop off our belongings, but I wanted to head straight to the hospital.
Grabbing the door handle and stepping out, I swing my backpack over my shoulder. I take the long strap of my purse and pull it over my head, letting it sit across my body as I begin moving toward the building.
The building is the worst sight of all. The stunning modern architecture of the hospital has Cole’s fingerprints all over it. I can see him biting his lips as he sketched those windows, and the elegant slope of the towers. I remember discussing this design with him. I remember the effort he put into creating a cohesive floorplan that would allow fast transportation between the emergency room and the various departments of specialization and surgery. It’s a masterpiece. At least he was murdered in one of his masterpieces. That would make him happy. Right? No.
I feel so surly and crass that I want to run through the streets, stomping like a Godzilla. I want to smash everything in sight. I want to reach out and break off one of the hospital’s peripheral towers, and use it to stab myself in the gut. The building is already stabbing me in the gut by simply standing there and looking beautiful. A testament to Cole’s greatness and how much he achieved in his short life. A testament to his mastery of the art and science that he loved. A testament to what I’ve lost. What the world has lost.
There are not many minds capable of fusing science and art in such a cohesive and efficient structure. Simple, yet elaborate. When you enter one of Cole’s buildings, you always have a sense of having your every need fulfilled. He thinks ahead, and plans for these things. If you need an elevator, or a bathroom, or a large window to illuminate a dark day, all you had to do was turn to your left, or your right, or reach out a few inches, and the amenity you desired was right there, waiting for you.
His buildings are welcoming, and they envelop you when you enter, embracing you with their perfectly placed walls. It was clear that hospitality and kindness to each visitor was his primary concern.
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t a deception.
Part of me feels incredibly grateful that these buildings will persist long after Cole is gone. That’s what he always wanted. I often told him that walking inside one of his buildings felt like walking into his mind, or his heart. The complexity of the structure was hidden under the guise of simplicity and function. Effortless function. Reliable, impossibly resilient function.
Maybe that’s why it’s difficult to enter now. Zack touches my back gently, encouraging me to walk forward with him. I
“Come on, Sophie,” he says softly.
Oh, how I’m sick of his falsely gentle touches and falsely soft words. I glare daggers at him before taking a deep breath and stepping forward. Fine then. To the morgue. We might as well.
I don’t need to look at the signs on the walls as we walk through the hospital halls. I have memorized the floorplans.
This strikes me as unusual. I have read so many thousands of books over the years, and I hardly ever remember any precise quotes from their pages. I only recall the feelings and impressions that I got from the experience of reading, and the time spent with the characters. Why, then, having worked closely with Cole on dozens of his buildings, should I remember the specific design of one floorplan so clearly? Do I remember all his floorplans this well?
I couldn’t say. I generally try to avoid his buildings, so that I can avoid these feelings and thoughts. It’s just a reminder of my own failure and inadequacy. It’s a reminder of how emotionally stunted I am, and unable to appreciate all the good things I’ve had in my life.
“Have you been to this hospital before?” Zack asks as we turn around a corner.
“No,” I answer succinctly.
I don’t want to bother explaining any more. As we continue, I see a crowd gathered around the doors leading to the morgue. I begin to feel the anxiety building in my chest when I notice members of the press holding large cameras and microphones.
Oh, god. What if Benjamin finds me?
What if this is all a plot to smoke me out, like a trapped animal?
I reach up and pull some of my dark hair down in front of my face. I double check my hair quickly to make sure that it is, in fact, black. It’s funny how the mere sight of a camera can transport me fifteen years back in time, and make me feel instantly like a frightened little girl again. Gazing through the small gap in my hair carefully, with my head tilted downward, I notice police officers conversing with doctors. I am suddenly concerned that I will not be allowed to see Cole’s body.
God help me, no one else better keep me away from him today.
I reach for my purse, thinking about what I can say to be let into the room. I need to carefully choose what I say around the press and police. What if they take me in for questioning? They will almost certainly take me in for questioning, and I’ve had enough of that in my lifetime. The anxiety mounts in my chest, and it starts to feel like a small boulder is sitting on my breastbone. Since I was young, I’ve learned not to trust law enforcement very much.
It’s difficult to expand my lungs as I approach the closed doors, and all the people standing around them. But I keep walking forward, because I know that Cole is in the room.
“Keep your mouth shut,” I tell Zack quietly, with a sideways glance.
He looks surprised, but he nods.
Marching past the policemen, I move directly to the security guard standing outside the morgue doors. “I’m here to see Cole Hunter,” I tell him simply.
An imposing officer is instantly beside me. “Excuse me, miss. This area is closed off due to an ongoing homicide investigation. I’m afraid I can’t let you enter.”
I lift my chin defiantly. “You need a family member to identify the body.”
The police officer looks confused when the doors open behind him and a small bald man steps out, holding a briefcase. My heart instantly soars at the sight of the tiny, elderly fellow, wearing a Jewish yarmulke.
“My word!” he says, moving over to me and grasping my arm. His face is tired and wrinkled, but his compassion is genuine. “Scarlett, my sweet girl. You are a sight for sore eyes. I am so sorry for your loss.”
I nod, trying to force some gratitude onto my face. “Thank you, Mr. Bishop.”
“Let her pass,” says Mr. Bishop says to the officer. “It could be helpful to have her in there.”
“What the hell?” says a female voice from the sidelines. “You are letting her in there, but not me?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t let her in,” says the police officer. “It’s family only, Mr. Bishop.”
“She is family,” Mr. Bishop says, looking at me expectantly.
“Yeah?” says the woman who spoke before, stepping closer. I see that her hair is striped with harsh blonde highlights, and her eyes are caked heavily with blue eye shadow. “Cole doesn’t have any family. He never mentioned anyone. Who the hell is she?”
Reaching into my purse, I withdraw an old wallet that I haven’t used in many years. I hope the worn leather doesn’t give me away. It makes my chest ache as I undo the buckle, and only partially becaus
e I wonder if all the identification is up to date. I withdraw my old driver’s license, like I do it every day at a bar, and lift it for the police officer to examine it.
“My name is Scarlett Hunter. I’m his wife.”
“His wife?” the brunette repeats. “That can’t be right. He isn’t married.”
“But he is, Miss Nelson. I was there at their ceremony, thirteen years ago,” Mr. Bishop says with a smile.
“B—but,” the brunette sputters. “That’s impossible. Cole would have been what? Sixteen years old?”
“That’s correct,” says the lawyer, taking my arm. “We have been trying to notify his next of kin for a few hours now. Thank god you’re finally here, Scarlett.”
“Why has he never mentioned you?” the woman barks, her face going very red.
So, this is Annabelle Nelson. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want to be that cliché jealous bitch. But my feminine curiosity wins out, and I turn to my side and give her a quick glance-over. Bad idea. She is clad in a classy designer pantsuit that nearly makes me flinch, and wearing one of those alligator-skin purses. Wow. You can always tell which girls played with a lot of Barbie dolls, growing up. I immediately feel inferior, in my wrinkled jeans and a t-shirt, and unkempt state after a five-hour flight. Plus, my purse is nearly worn to tatters, and I am carrying my whole life on my shoulders in a backpack that makes it look like I am still in high school.
I pull my lips together tightly at the uncomfortable situation, but I shouldn’t feel too bad about betraying some emotion: the expression on her face is horrified and disgusted. She is pointing at me as though I am a creature with three heads and a spiky tail. From her betrayed reaction, I imagine that she was very intimate with Cole. I am a little surprised, as she doesn’t seem like his type. But it has been a while, and what do I know?
“I travel a lot for work,” I explain to her with a little shrug. “Cole probably didn’t mention me because he was annoyed that I wasn’t at home more often.”
I feel Zack’s hand on the back of my arm, squeezing just above my elbow. He clears his throat.
Turning around, I see the look of hurt on Zack’s face. Oh, shit. I totally forgot about him.
I suppose he must feel the same way Annabelle does.
“Well, Mrs. Hunter, you may enter the morgue,” the policeman says. “My apologies. Detective Rodriguez will want to speak to you.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping forward.
Zack tries to follow me, but the policeman stops him. “You can’t go in there, sir.”
“It’s fine,” Zack tells the police officer, leaning forward as if they are friends, and speaking in a low voice. “I need to be with her. I’m her bodyguard,” he explains. “Until we know who was responsible for Mr. Hunter’s death, we can’t assume that Mrs. Hunter is safe.”
Whoa. That was such a good lie that I almost believed him. His height and build make the statement more credible.
“Oh, certainly, sir. I understand. Please go right in.”
“Thank you, officer.”
I look at Zack suspiciously, impressed by his ability to think on his feet and adapt to the situation. He only found out that Cole and I were married a second ago, and he was able to go along with this Mrs. Hunter thing quite easily. Even I haven’t been Mrs. Hunter in so long that it feels like I am play acting a character. Maybe it always felt like I was play acting a character.
When we step past the officer and into the morgue, the stress of the identity change and marriage situation quickly leaves me as I remember that Cole is lying in here dead. I stop still for a moment, staring at all the silver drawers containing bodies. My breathing begins to come in short, shallow gasps.
I feel Zachary’s hands on my shoulders.
“Mrs. Hunter,” he says to me, just in case anyone is listening. “It looks like the body is over there.”
I can’t look. Why the hell did I come to this place? Why did I even fly to California? What is wrong with me? I should have flown to the opposite end of the planet. I shouldn’t be here. I abandoned Cole in life. How can I show up now, claiming to be his wife, pretending to fulfill wifely duties, when he’s lying in the fucking morgue?
I am about to turn and run out of the room, but Zack holds me fast. A woman’s voice calls out to me, and I turn to my left to see her standing beside a body covered in a sheet.
“Scarlett!” she exclaims with recognition. Her voice breaks in a sob. “Oh, sweetie.”
“Miranda,” I murmur with pleasant surprise, suddenly finding the courage to take a step forward.
She smiles sadly and rushes over to me, throwing her arms around me tightly. “My dear, it’s such a terrible thing. Such a terrible thing. But don’t you worry, I am here for you. We’ll take care of each other and get through this.”
I exhale slowly, reciprocating the hug.
Miranda Walters is a brilliant scientist, and Cole and I worked closely with her for many years. In fact, she is a huge part of the reason that his company was so successful, and Cole’s buildings were so special and innovative. Most people don’t think of synthetic biology being connected to architecture, but Miranda and Cole worked together to create buildings that were almost alive, and able to heal themselves.
Of course, my security systems also made the buildings special, but it took many skilled professionals, from various disciplines, to work together and create Cole’s masterpieces. This hospital isn’t even close to being the best of them. The developer’s budget was low, and they wanted a more basic building.
In the repertoire of Cole’s work, this hospital is nowhere near the caliber of his greatest hits. It’s a filler song on one of his albums that went unnoticed, and never would have been noticed if he hadn’t been killed here. His true masterpieces are the experimental and eclectic pieces that are scattered across the globe. Japan, Russia, Brazil, Dubai, Australia, Sweden.
Those iconic pieces of work are what made him a world famous architect; buildings that could withstand almost anything.
And now he’s lying on that table over there.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Miranda says with a sniffle, waving her hand in dismissal as she glances at the table. “He’s not in here. They already performed the autopsy this morning, and the body has been sent to the funeral home. I hope you don’t mind, honey. I started on the funeral arrangements without you, because I didn’t know when or if you’d get here.”
I exhale again, in relief. “That’s okay, Miranda. I just—I did want to see him, but...”
“Honey, I would rather shoot myself in the knee than force you to look at that. Cole was just...” She shakes her head, unable to continue. She bites on her lip to keep them from trembling, and I can see that she is close to falling apart. “Cole was so...”
“It’s okay,” I tell her softly, reaching out to touch her arm. I can see new wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that were not there before. Miranda must be in her mid-forties now, but she still looks fit and well-maintained. When I left, she had three small children whom I used to babysit occasionally. With Cole.
Miranda was one of the few adults in our life that we could really trust and look up to. In fact, she was almost motherly to us when we first started our business, and sought her out to propose working together.
I had blocked it all out; how much I cared for her. How much I liked my life, before I ran away. How many good people were around us, rooting for us. How hard it was to find those people.
“How are Darla and Dane doing?” I ask her. “And Max?”
“Max is starting college this year,” she says with a sad smile. “Can you believe it? The twins are a handful, as always. They just got matching tattoos, and cartilage piercings. They play in a garage band,” Miranda says with a chuckle.
That finally brings a genuine smile to my face. I remember those kids banging pots and pans all night long. I remember doing karaoke with them at their home.
“Excuse me, ladies,” says a man in a pol
ice uniform, approaching us. “I hate to interrupt this reunion, but did you say you were Scarlett Hunter? Cole’s wife?”
“That’s correct,” I tell him quietly.
“My name is Detective Rodriguez. I will need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.”
“Sure, Detective,” I say weakly. “But do you mind if we do this another time? I just got off a five-hour flight, and this is all still a bit… much.”
“Of course, I understand.” He reaches into his blazer to pull out a business card, which he hands to me. “You can come by the station anytime, or we could just meet up for a cup of coffee after the funeral tomorrow.”
“Coffee is good,” I tell the detective in response.
“It will help with the jet lag. I’m always so tired after a long flight,” he responds in a friendly way.
Is he trying to butter me up for information? He wouldn’t be stupid enough to actually flirt with a vulnerable widow at a time like this? Zack is still standing behind me too, and I think I hear him step a little closer, protectively.
“We should let the poor girl get some rest,” Miranda says, putting an arm around me.
“So what are you all still doing in here, if Cole isn’t’ here?” I ask with a knotted forehead.
“It’s kind of a meeting, honey,” Miranda explains. “We don’t know who would have wanted to harm Cole, and whether the offices are bugged, or anything. We don’t know if they’ll come after us next. Detective Rodriguez has been giving me some tips to stay safe, and we’ve been trying to sort out some kind of plan, going forward. Maybe you can help us, dear.”
At that moment, Mr. Bishop enters the room and clears his throat. “Alright, Scarlett and Miranda. We need to discuss his will and the future of the company. Both of you are beneficiaries, so I will have copies given to you after the funeral tomorrow.” He pauses to look at Zack. “Scarlett, do you mind me speaking in front of your bodyguard? Or the detective?”
“No,” I say softly. “Go ahead.”
“Alright, well I just want to give you a heads up about the will, because as the executor, it’s going to be a lot of work. Of course, as his wife, you received almost everything, and you now possess controlling shares in the company. Cole stipulated in his will that he wanted you to take over as CEO if anything happened to him.”
