Alone (Bone Secrets, #4)(16)

Dr. Campbell studied Seth for a moment, evaluating him as deeply as the X-rays. He had a hunch the doctor didn’t miss much. In that case, the ME would see no deception on Seth’s part. He’d left a marriage that’d been doomed from day one, and he was simply starting a new chapter in his life.

“I don’t know how retirement is going to treat me.” Dr. Campbell’s tone lightened as he turned back to the films. “I’ve always had my finger on the pulse of this operation. I know the ins and outs, the dark corners, and where the dead bodies are buried,” he joked. “I hope this office and I can adapt to having my input abruptly cut off.”

“Maybe you should ease your way out,” Seth offered. “Work part time for a while.”

Dr. Campbell shook his head. “Sometimes a clean break with a fresh start is the healthiest way to handle the changes in life. People step up to the task when they are faced with challenges. Letting go slowly, hoping to smooth things out, often doesn’t help anyone.”

Seth silently exhaled, grateful for the doctor’s understanding.


Victoria skimmed the email from Anita and silently cheered. There was a reason the woman was the office manager. She could find anything and work miracles. Even though parents and press were clamoring for identities on the dead girls, Anita had managed to hunt down the location of the remains of the women found in Forest Park decades ago.

Victoria was one lucky anthropologist.

The three sets of skeletal remains were boxed in the cold case storage. No cremains.

She fought the urge to do a happy dance in her chair. The women could have been cremated and stored in canisters. Or buried. Instead, someone long ago had reduced the remains down to skeletal and placed them in boxes and stored them away, hoping their mystery could be solved in the future. Now they waited for Victoria to read them and search out answers about their identities.

The main question in the old case still ate at her. How could three women not be claimed? She tapped her glasses on her desk, her chin resting on her hand. Didn’t they have families missing them? She’d caught the latest news update, which had expanded to include the event of so long ago. The three who had been identified had previously been runaways or suspected prostitutes. None of them had originally been from the Portland area, but their families had all stated that they’d deliberately left home. Two had fought with their parents and ran off. The third had informed her family she was leaving for greener pastures.

No doubt the similarities of the new case would send reporters digging deep into archives. Perhaps some fresh exposure would trigger memories or reach people who hadn’t known about the three unidentified women. In her opinion, the two similar cases had the potential to go viral on the Internet. It had the key ingredients—tragic death, young women, and nearly identical occurrences decades apart.

Ugh. That wasn’t the type of publicity the examiner’s office needed right now. Hopefully the sensationalism would stay out of the way. She scribbled the reference numbers for the storage room on a scrap of paper, her curiosity level hovering somewhere in the stratosphere.

Her cell phone vibrated on her desk. Intending to ignore the call, she stood and was pushing in her chair when the name on the cell screen caught her eye.

Oh, come on. Not now.

Her ex-husband was calling. Again. She spoke with Rory about once a month since the divorce two years ago. They were still friends—well, they were still acquaintances. She never felt the urge to meet him for a drink, and she only tolerated his phone calls. She classified that type of relationship as an acquaintance. Why was he calling so early on a Sunday? The Rory she knew should be sound asleep from being out too late last night.

Had she mentioned her ex-husband still thought he was in college?

Her hand hovered over the phone. And hit Ignore.

She headed for the storage rooms.





Trinity sat in the waiting room at the medical examiner’s office and tried to make herself disappear. She hunched over her clipboard, glancing occasionally at the growing number of people milling about the room, avoiding eye contact. No one asked her any questions. The growing crowd was mostly adults, and each one or couple had a clipboard with the questionnaire.

The room was tense. Some parents cried, others spoke in hushed tones, and more simply stared into space, their hands in a death grip or clenching a spouse’s hand. Cell phone screens were constantly checked and calls made. Trinity’s questionnaire about Brooke was finished, but she hadn’t turned it in. As long as she didn’t hand in the form, Brooke wasn’t confirmed as dead. She clung to the clipboard, her fingers icy and her feet numb.

Ever since she’d seen the news on TV, she’d felt like she couldn’t get enough oxygen. Her brain was locked away, protected from thinking deeply. A door slammed in her mind if she started to consider Brooke’s fate. She’d floated, barely functioning on half power since speaking with Dr. Peres.

In her heart, she knew something was wrong.

Brooke always returned texts.

Trinity read the questionnaire for the hundredth time.

Age

Hair color and length

Eye color

Height

Estimated weight

Any unusual scars, birthmarks? Braces or tattoos?

Clothing last seen wearing

Brooke didn’t have braces or tattoos. Trinity didn’t know about any scars. The form was so sterile. It didn’t allow her to describe Brooke’s beauty or laugh. Or explain what a good friend she’d been… was. She’d filled in answers that were short and cold. Brooke’s sunny smile flooded her brain, and she immediately shut the image down.