Page 19 of Chosen Path
“Do you have a first aid kit?” She thought to ask.
He gave her an unreadable look. “I have everything I should need in my backpack. I’ll just run up to my room and get it.”
Everything he needs.Of course. If Corrine was dead, then a first aid kit wouldn’t do her any good, and he probably had all the implements he’d need to gather forensic evidence of her death.
“Maybe take my kit—just in case.”
Hope raised her tear-stained face. “Just in case she’s alive, you mean? She’s not. I know she’s not. I’m the one who found my mom. I know what a dead person looks like.”
“Is Corrine’s door unlocked, Hope?” Bodhi asked from the stairs, halfway up to the second floor.
She nodded. “The front’s locked, but the back door isn’t. I went in through the kitchen. She’s … her body’s in the living room.”
“Got it.” He turned to Molly. “Where am I going?”
“Turn left at the corner. Corrine’s place is two blocks up on the right. It’s uh …” Molly paused to search her memory for the address she’d seen on Corrine’s chart just one day ago. “Her address is 213 Cliffside Road. I think the house is white?”
Hope hiccupped. “It’s a cream color. Green shutters.”
Bodhi nodded and raced up the stairs.
“Come on, Hope, let’s get you into the room.” Molly helped the distraught woman to her feet and led her to the wooden pocket doors that concealed the examination room.
She slid the doors open, and Hope trudged inside, her head hanging low.
CHAPTERNINE
Bodhi paused on the cracked sidewalk outside 213 Cliffside and gazed at the small house with green shutters. It was more of a cottage, really.
The first block after Molly’s was filled with structures like her house. Old Victorians, most of them with a veneer of faded elegance that veered into shabbiness. A handful had been restored to their original grandeur. But as he crossed the next street, the houses became more modest and, counterintuitively, the lots grew more spacious. Ramblers and tiny stone cottages lined both sides of the street. Corrine’s home sat at a bend in the road. A wooden picket fence—painted white, but peeling—with a gate that hung open led to a sizable front yard.
He stepped through the gate and latched it behind him. Although Hope had been certain the woman inside was dead, he followed the stepping stones that led to the front of the house and knocked on the door. When he’d worked in the county coroner’s office in Pittsburgh, he’d lost count of the shooting victims who’d taken homeowners by surprise. He made it a practice to always knock.
He waited a beat, then rapped his knuckles against the wood again. He listened hard but heard no movement inside. The house was quiet and still. No signs of life other than a chattering blue jay, who jeered at him from its perch somewhere in Corrine’s front yard.
Bodhi turned his head and searched for the bird. He spotted a flash of brilliant blue in a tree and reached into the side pocket of his backpack. He pulled out a handful of peanuts and tossed them toward the tree.
“Here you go, pal.”
The bold jay hopped down and grabbed the peanuts, dragging three by their shells toward some secret cache. The bird hid the booty, then whistled loudly.
“You’re quite welcome,” Bodhi responded before circling around to the back of the house.
Cliffside Road was aptly named. Beyond the edge of Corrine’s crooked fence was a sheer drop. Bodhi strode to the fence and peered down. The hollow below was rocky and bare, save for a few dormant trees. A cold breezed whipped up from the culvert, hitting him in the face.
He shivered as he hurried across the frosted lawn back toward the house. He paused to look through a lace-curtained kitchen window, but the room was dark. No lights, no sounds, no movement. He knocked loudly on the back door and waited a beat.
He reached for the doorknob, then froze and pulled back his hand. He removed a pair of disposable gloves from his bag and pulled them on with a snap. Then he slid a pair of blue booties over his boots. He had no reason to believe he was walking into a crime scene, but once he had a reason, it would be too late to avoid contamination.
Satisfied that he’d done what he could to preserve the scene, whatever it might be, he twisted the doorknob. The door swung open just as Hope had said it would.
He bent to examine the lock for evidence of damage. Seeing none, he stepped over the threshold and stood just inside the doorway while his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
“Mrs. Wolf? Corrine? My name’s Bodhi. Doctor Hart sent me to check on you. Hello?” he called toward the front of the house.
Even as he said the words, he knew it was an exercise in futility. The sharp, ammonia scent of urine burned his nostrils. It was an unfortunate and familiar smell. In the moments after death, the body’s muscles relaxed. This primary flaccidity frequently caused the newly deceased to void their bladders.
He crossed the kitchen, noting as he passed by it that the sink was dry, as were the cups in the dish rack. The kitchen led into the dining room, which led into the living room in the front of the house. The dining room was dark, the heavy drapes drawn tight across the only window. But the living room was illuminated by a pair of table lamps. He made a note to ask Hope if she’d turned them on.
