The real April? She does all of that, and I’m sure when she says I’m overreacting, she thinks I truly am. That doesn’t mean she is prepared. It means she cannot comprehend being unprepared. She’s spent her life slicing into the human body, and it has never bothered her, so why should this?
Why indeed?
April has been working on the woman’s torso for twenty minutes now, and she has to keep stopping, balling her hands to stop the faint tremor, her breath rasping against the surgical mask I insisted she wear to stifle the smell. Every few moments, her gaze moves to the side, accidentally catching a severed limb, and she closes her eyes, steeling herself to start again.
Another hand flex, and she murmurs, “I believe I overindulged in coffee this morning.”
“It’s okay to say you find this difficult, April.”
“I do not. It is simply…” A furtive glimpse around. “It is outside my experience, and I am adjusting.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please stop saying that.”
“I can’t. I’m just … I’m so, so sorry.”
“You warned me. I failed to comprehend the situation fully.”
I nod.
She glances over. “Are you crying, Casey?”
I blink back tears. “N-no. It’s just…”
“Allergies to a substance in the vicinity that you have somehow never encountered before?” Her brows arch. “You are crying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop. The apologies, I mean. You are permitted to cry, even if you do not need to feel bad on my account. I will adjust.”
Silence. Then her fingers tentatively rest on my arm.
“I am fine, Casey.”
I nod, tears flowing freely. “I’m just. I’m—” I instinctively throw out my arms to hug her and then stop, horror seizing me as I mumble yet another apology.
“You wanted to hug me?” She eases back on her haunches. “You haven’t done that since you were a toddler.”
I manage a weak smile. “I learned it wasn’t your favorite thing.”
“It is not. However, you may hug me now, if it helps.”
I throw my arms around her in a quick embrace. As I pull away, she grips my shoulder, leans in, and whispers, “Yes, it is difficult. I will be fine. I would not, however, object to
a very strong drink when we return to Rockton.”
I pass her a wry smile. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Excellent. Now let’s finish this.”
* * *
I put April through the hell of that scene, and we learn absolutely nothing new for it. As she points out, though, I needed her to confirm my suspicions, and without that, I’d be running a constant mental loop of doubt, kicking myself for burying the bodies before I was sure.
With the state of the corpses, an autopsy isn’t 100 percent conclusive either. Yet April feels confident saying that both victims died of knife wounds. The condition of the wounds says they were alive at the time—their hearts were still pumping blood. The woman’s neck slice bisects the carotid artery and would have been fatal. One of the man’s stab wounds perforated his heart. Also fatal.
Both injuries are consistent with blades. April may specialize in neuroscience, but she spent years in emergency wards, and she knows the difference between a knife wound and an animal bite. Plenty of the latter here, but the killing blows are not among them.