Page 3 of Hide and Seek
2
HARPER-RAYN
The giant bottle of water I’d consumed while working on my report suddenly makes itself known, and the overwhelming need to pee hits me like a freight train as I stand terrified in the middle of the morgue.
My heart booms like a bass drum, and I take the desperate urge to pee as a blessing in disguise, using it as my excuse to escape the one place that usually brings me peace. My feet pound against the linoleum, and within seconds, I’m flying through the door and making sure I hear the click of the automated lock behind me.
It’s all in my head. It has to be.
There isn’t a psychopath in the morgue waiting to turn me into chopped liver. Perhaps all the late nights and corpses are finally getting to me. I can only imagine what my mother would say, assuming I ever told her about it.
After hightailing it to the bathroom, I take my time, waiting for the eeriness to fade from my bones, but at this point, it would take a miracle for that to happen.
I’m well aware that what I do for work isn’t considered a normal profession. Most people would say it’s fucked up—most people being my mother, of course—and not to mention, the type of things I see aren’t for the faint of heart. I usually counterbalance the horror with music, playing it throughout the morgue as I work and sing along to keep my mind off the heaviness of what’s on my table, but tonight while I tried to piece together the mystery of the poisoned turkey sub, not a beat of music was played. I got carried away with my report, and perhaps that allowed the weirdness to creep in. That’s all that happened tonight . . . right?
I’m not exactly thrilled with the lackluster excuses I’m telling myself, but they’re better than the alarm bells ringing at the back of my mind, warning me that something isn’t right. That somebody was in there, watching me like a stalker. But that’s crazy.
This stuff only happens in movies, and I’m no Detective Olivia Benson. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to get myself out of that kind of situation. I’d fumble at the first sign of trouble. I’m the girl in the movie who trips over her feet and all but offers herself up as a screaming sacrifice to the ax-wielding murderer.
Ahhh crap.
I’m definitely overthinking this.
After wasting too much time in the bathroom, I wash my hands and splash water over my face, not caring that I was a cheapskate and dropped the ball when it came to purchasing a good waterproof mascara.
Black lines streak down my cheeks, and I grab some paper towels to clean myself up. But what does it matter? It’s not like I see anyone down in my little refrigerated dungeon, and if thereis someone lurking in the morgue, I’m never going to see the light of day again anyway. So, who cares if I look like a drowned rat? Though I suppose someone I know will stumble upon my body come morning, and after all the tears, they’ll get straight back to work and diligently scrub every speck of makeup from my body. I guess that means they’re also going to see me naked, and if I knew that earlier, I would have worn nicer underwear.
Just my fucking luck.
Feeling only a fraction better about my impending doom, I wander back down to the morgue with shaking hands. I clutch my access card between my fingers just to give me something to hold on to. Then as I hover in front of the big double doors of the morgue, I begin to fret, terrified of what I’m about to walk into.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-eight for fuck’s sake. I haven’t been scared of the dark since I was a little girl. I don’t get jumpy when watching scary movies, and I sure as fuck don’t let silly shit get the best of me.
I’m going to walk back in there. I’ll find my portable speaker and pump some music, so I can put this shit behind me. There are now only two or so hours left of my shift. I’ll be fine. Then tonight, I can go home, meet up with Laith, and forget all about the weird tingles that sailed down my spine while he rails me with that big and long schlong—number two.
Finding new confidence, I hold my head high and swipe my access card before pushing my way through the heavy doors. I’m not a scared little bitch. I’m a badass forensic pathologist . . . almost. Shit like this shouldn’t get to me. I’m a woman of science, and I don’t let a strange little shiver down my spine send me running for the hills; I’m better than that. Besides, if my mind wants to play games on me, then I can play right back. I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to do that, but there’s nothing I love more than petty games.
The heavy door falls closed behind me with a loud thud, and the sound of the automatic lock clicking into place goes a long way to reassure me that I’m not going crazy. I just had a moment of weakness, but now that it has passed, I can get back to work being the boss bitch I’ve always intended to be.
Striding through the chilled morgue, I approach my desk while trying to remember where the hell I left my speaker, when something from the corner of my eye catches my attention. My brows furrow, and I turn while slowing my pace to an abrupt standstill.
My heart lurches into a fierce race as I stare across the massive room at the single black rose that lies in the center of my autopsy table.
What in the ever-loving fuck? This isn’t possible.
The door was locked. Nobody was in here. I checked it before I peed. There’s no way that rose could have found its way onto that table.
Unless . . . I was wrong.
This isn’t just some bullshit my head has conjured due to a lack of music while writing up reports. I’m not going insane. The chills down my spine were real. The gut feeling was real. The fear was all fucking real.
There was somebody watching me, somebody inside the morgue with me.
The black rose stares back at me like a wretched taunt, and as a million thoughts and fears spiral through my mind like a wild tornado, I realize that gifting me a black rose is going to be the last thing that some fucked-up stalker is going to want with me.
I’ve seen this game play out a million times before. I’ve seen the women who wind up on my table. I’ve seen the sick way they’re preyed upon. That can’t be me. I won’t allow it. Then without a moment of hesitation, I nope the fuck out of there, running faster than my feet can possibly take me.
What if this person never left? What if they’re still here, watching and waiting to put my cold, dead body on this very autopsy table?
