Real Bad Things(76)

Somehow, everything had spiraled, and someone had gotten the information out to Let’s Talk About Maud, and now she was standing in a funeral home with Chuck after going down an internet rabbit hole trying to learn more, anything, something that might help them. Otherwise, they were all looking at murder one. And the crowd was rooting for death.

“What are you waiting for?” Jane asked when she regrouped and got her bearings.

Chuck began to protest but must’ve thought better of it. He rushed down the hallway past open doorways for rooms meant for mourning and stopped at the end in front of a door located next to a built-in shelf for displays. A gigantic vase of orchids was lit like a painting in a museum. The smell overpowered her. She sneezed. A headache was sure to follow.

Once again, he fumbled with the keys.

She reached for them, but he held them away from her.

“Don’t rush me.”

She smirked and leaned against the wall to wait for him to figure out how to unlock his own door. She yawned loud and big and swiped at her leaking eyes. The manic energy that had kept her up all night had begun to fade. Across from her, inside one of the dimly lit rooms, a coffin perched on its bier. What Jane could see of the body inside looked like a mannequin. Plastic features with a manufactured tan.

Death penalty.

Somehow it hadn’t felt real before. Before seeing it online and from other people. Even though they were comments. Even though everyone knew not to read or believe those or let them get in their heads. But they had.

She wouldn’t die for Georgia Lee. Or Jason. Not now.

“Are you coming?” Chuck sneered.

“Sorry. I fell asleep waiting on you.” She pushed past him into his office and held a hand to her eyes when he flicked on the lights.

“What are you looking for in this anyway?”

She didn’t know. But she did. It was something the web sleuths wanted when they were investigating crimes.

“Don’t ask questions,” she said.

Chuck grimaced and sat down at his desk. He found the file quicker than he’d been able to unlock the doors. Must’ve had it resting right on top in case Hollywood came calling. She bet he stared out the window during his lunch break and fantasized about his giant head on a screen, his name and title below, Helvetica Neue, flush left: Chuck Yancey, Funeral Home Director, Maud, Arkansas.

He held the folder to his chest. She rolled her eyes, yanked a piece of paper and a pen off his desk, and scratched out the first thing that came to her head: Looking for someone to bury the asshole you hated and then murdered? Well, look no further than Yancey Funeral Home! Chuck will get you all settled—and with a smile! —Jane Mooney, aka Lezzie Borden, Maud’s famed murderer.

She thrust the paper at him. “There. Now hand over the file.”

He continued to hold the folder to his chest with one hand and inspected her testimonial with the other.

“I can’t use this!” He handed it back to her. “This isn’t appropriate!”

“Edit it however you want.”

“I . . .” He huffed. “You said you’d write a testimonial. This is a joke.”

“I don’t have time for revisions, Chuck. Write whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care about the content. I’m probably going to die anyway.”

He thought about it for a bit and then handed her the folder. “Fine. But this is not to leave this room. Not me meeting you here. And not me showing you this file.” She grabbed an edge of the folder and tugged, but he held on. “If you try to run away with it, I will have no choice but to tackle you. I played defense in high school.”

“Just give me the damn folder.” Finally, he let go.

She sat in the same chair she’d sat in to negotiate Warren’s funeral service. Chuck wandered to the window and peeked out the shades.

Before she even had a chance to flip the cover, he said, “Don’t take too long. I need to get home before Annie wakes.”

She ignored him and opened the folder.

The coroner’s report. Web sleuths treated it like a holy grail. The dead talking to the living, telling all their secrets. What secrets would Warren’s body reveal?

She squinted to try to decipher the coroner’s handwriting. Her eyes seemed to jump around the page. She swiped at them and held the paper behind her, toward Chuck. “What’s this say?”

He stepped away from the window. The shades hushed closed behind him.

“Let me see.”

While he examined the report, she yawned again and stretched her neck, pausing to stare at the ceiling. She opened her eyes wide to try to get them to function properly, but it didn’t help.

She blinked rapidly several times before casting her gaze back on the folder in her lap. Behind a cover page, the corner of a photo peeked out.

“Blunt force trauma,” Chuck said behind her.

She lifted the cover page slowly, afraid of what she might see in the photo after the gradual reveal of the tile floor in the room where Chuck prepared bodies for burial.

“Murder weapon inconclusive. Officially. Meaning they can’t tell from the remains.”

There on the metal table, bones. Not like in the shows or classrooms. Not crisp white. But brown. A little busted. A little sad.

“What’d you say you used?”

“I don’t remember,” she said.