Page 8 of Beneath the Scars

"If you say so. Listen, it's getting late. I'm gonna have Karl close up; then we can get going. I'll have the report typed up and emailed to you and the station before I leave tonight. Is there anything else you need from me?"

Pushing down the urge to ask for her personal number, I shake my head before saying my farewells to her and Karl.

It's time to head to my room and dig through Mr. Butler's digital life. That should shed some light on the sudden changes.

Chapter Seven

Byron

Todayhasbeenaday—heck, it's been two days all wrapped up into one. I came to the decision to live in a city like Portland after careful deliberation. It is big enough that I can disappear without drawing too much attention but not so big that I feel lost and completely alone.

The upside of being a medical examiner in a place like this is that we don't often see the bad things I did today. The downside is that I'm definitely not used to seeing them, and even though I was able to do my job objectively, now I have to deal with the fallout.

Aaron Butler's mutilated body keeps center stage in my mind, and no matter how hard I try to clear it and focus on better things, exactly in the same way Becky taught me to do, I can't cleanse my thoughts this time.

I've heard about The Cat. You'd have to live under a rock to have missed the entire country going crazy over The Cat that got everyone's tongue. After dealing with just one of the killer's victims, I feel as if I've been changed irrevocably for the rest of my life. And Agent Scott has had to deal with this day in and day out for months. And that's only one of his cases.

Putting my feet up on my coffee table I lean back in my large, overstuffed armchair with my glass of red wine held tight in my hand.

In my other is Agent Byron Scott's business card.

I shouldn't phone him. We have absolutely nothing else left to say to one another, but I've been unable to get him out of my thoughts since he left the morgue.

Before I can do anything stupid, I put the card back on the coffee table and get up to grab the TV remote instead. It's getting late, and I have to be up for work in way too few hours, but my brain is way too busy to settle down, so I might as well get in one or two episodes of The Circle. This will also give me the bonus of actually having something to talk with Jayne about tomorrow.

She's been remarkably accepting of my awkward shyness and reluctance to socialize, and I'm determined to make this friendship work.

With the first episode queued up, a glass of red, and snacks ready, I settle in for the night. But before I can even press play, there is a knock on my door.

My eyes jump up to the clock above my television and my brows furrow at the time I see there.

It's after ten.

On a school night.

Who the hell would be here at this time of night?

Thoughts of mysterious serial killers and crazy people invade my mind, and it takes a remarkable amount of effort to remind myself The Cat has only killed men. For once the female population in the US is safer from something than the men.

Now is not the time to snicker at Cat Lady jokes, Lily, Becky's ever-present voice scolds me, and a smirk still slips across my face. But as always, the smile tugs on the scar tissue, reminding me how very little I have to be happy about.

Another knock focuses my attention back to the front door, and I carefully get up, trying to be quiet for some ridiculous reason. If I'm this wound up over working on the killer's victim, I might have to take something to help me sleep tonight. There is no reason for me to be plagued by nightmares if I don't need it, right?

A quick peep through the peephole shows me a delivery guy dressed in a nondescript khaki outfit.

"Who is it?" I call through the door, refusing to open, seeing as I'm not expecting any packages, especially not at this time of night.

"I have a package for one, Miss Lillian Gale. It's labeled as a 'Circle Survival Kit'."

A giggle escapes as I rush to open the front door.

I didn't even know Jayne knew where I lived, but I suppose she could have gotten my address from someone in the hospital's administration.

"Hi!" I exclaim as the delivery guy holds his clipboard for me to sign. As usual, his eyes fall to my scar, and I see the instant recoil when he sees it. Used to all sorts of reactions, I brush it off, pretending it doesn't burn like the sting of a hundred hornets.

"Here you go," he mutters as he hands me the box before stepping back and rushing away.

Not willing to let one asshole's garish behavior affect what is otherwise a lovely and thoughtful surprise, I slam shut the door, taking care to lock and secure it before rushing to my comfy armchair.

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