by LS Hawker
I tried to do as he asked, but I wasn’t sure how to say it so he wouldn’t be annoyed.
“Did your dad complain of chest pains, jaw pain? Did his left arm hurt?”
I shook my head. “Just said he didn’t feel good. Like he had the flu.”
“Did your dad have high cholesterol? High blood pressure?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time he saw a doctor?” the coroner asked.
“He didn’t believe in doctors.”
“Your dad was only fifty-one, so I’ll have to schedule an autopsy, even though it was probably a heart attack. We’ll run a toxicology panel, which’ll take about four weeks because we have to send it to the lab in Topeka.”
The blood drained from my face. “Toxicology?” I said. “Why?”
“It’s standard procedure,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure my dad wouldn’t want an autopsy.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “You can bury him before the panel comes back.”
“No, I mean Dad wouldn’t want someone cutting him up like that.”
“It’s state law.”
“Please,” I said.
His eyes narrowed as they focused on me. Then he stood.
“After the autopsy, where would you like the remains sent?”
“Holt Mortuary in Niobe,” a voice from the living room said.
I rose from the couch to see who’d said it. Randy King stood with his back to the wall, his Stetson low over his eyes.
The coroner glanced at me for confirmation.
“I’m the executor of Mr. Moshen’s will,” Randy said. He raised his head and I saw his eyes, light blue with tiny pupils that seemed to bore clear through to the back of my head.
I shrugged at the coroner.
“Would you like to say goodbye to your father before we transport him to the morgue?” he said.
I nodded and followed him to the stairs, where he stood aside. “After you,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You first.”
Dad had taught me never to go in a door first and never to let anyone walk behind me. The coroner frowned but mounted the stairs.
Upstairs, Dad’s room was the first one on the left. The coroner stood outside the door. He reached out to touch my arm and I took a step backward. He dropped his hand to his side.
“Miss Moshen,” he said in a hushed voice. “Your father looks different from when he was alive. It might be a bit of a shock. No one would blame you if you didn’t—”
I walked into Dad’s room, taking with me everything I knew from all the cop shows I’d watched. But I was not prepared at all for what I saw.
Since he’d died on his stomach, the EMTs had turned Dad onto his back. He was in full rigor mortis, so his upper lip was mashed into his gums and curled into a sneer, exposing his khaki-colored teeth. His hands were spread in front of his face, palms out. Dad’s eyes stared up and to the left and his entire face was grape-pop purple.
What struck me when I first saw him—after I inhaled my gum—was that he appeared to be warding off a demon. I should have waited until the mortician was done with him, because I knew I’d never get that image out of my mind.
I walked out of Dad’s room on unsteady feet, determined not to cry in front of these strangers. The deputy and the sheriff stood outside my bedroom, examining the door to it. Both of them looked confused.
“Petty,” Sheriff Bloch said.
I stopped in the hall, feeling even more violated with them so close to my personal items and underwear.
“Yes?”
“Is this your bedroom?”
I nodded.
Sheriff and deputy made eye contact. The coroner paused at the top of the stairs to listen in. This was what my dad had always talked about—the judgment of busybody outsiders, their belief that somehow they needed to have a say in the lives of people they’d never even met and knew nothing about.
The three men seemed to expect me to say something, but I was tired of talking. Since I’d never done much of it, I’d had no idea how exhausting it was.
The deputy said, “Why are there six dead bolts on the outside of your door?”
It was none of his business, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.
“So Dad could lock me in, of course.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LS HAWKER grew up in suburban Denver, indulging her worrisome obsession with true-crime books, and writing stories about anthropomorphic fruit and juvenile delinquents. She wrote her first novel at fourteen.
Armed with a BS in journalism from the University of Kansas, she had a radio show called People Are So Stupid, edited a trade magazine, and worked as a traveling Kmart portrait photographer, but never lost her passion for fiction writing.
She’s got a hilarious, supportive husband, two brilliant daughters, and a massive music collection. She lives in Colorado but considers Kansas her spiritual homeland. Visit her website at LSHawker.com.
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Also by LS Hawker
The Drowning Game
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Drowning Game copyright © 2015 by LS Hawker.
BODY AND BONE. Copyright © 2016 by LS Hawker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition MAY 2016 ISBN: 9780062435224
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062435217
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