LITMIR.BIZ

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living.”

      “It’s such a lovely home, Peter,” she said, running her hand over the curved moldings of a chair rail. Every element of every room was finely designed and crafted. “Did you and Angela build it?”

      “Yes. Angie selected all the finishing details and the decor.”

      The implication hung in the air between them—if they’d married instead, Carlotta would’ve been the one sorting through Italian-tile samples and choosing custom-cabinet hardware. She knew that Peter was wealthy in his own right, and would inherit another fortune when his parents passed, but seeing firsthand how he lived—how she might’ve lived—left her feeling a little light-headed.

      “Angela had good taste,” she said finally.

      He nodded, then retrieved her suitcase and gestured toward the stairs—one of two staircases, she’d learned during the tour. “I’ll show you your room and you can unpack while I get dinner started.”

      She followed him, holding on to the handrail as she climbed the wide staircase. Ahead of her, Peter was animated as he pointed out different rooms and some of the pieces of art that he particularly liked. He seemed almost giddy to have her there, but Carlotta felt a heaviness all around her, as if there was a presence in the house…Angela’s aura.

      Then she gave herself a mental shake at her absurdity. Angela was gone, and Peter was ready to move on.

      Still…it felt eerie to be given full run of the woman’s house, especially in light of Angela’s outright dislike of her. Carlotta couldn’t blame her, though. During the investigation of the woman’s death, it was revealed that Peter carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet. Angela must have known, and it had to have eaten at her.

      “This is my room,” he said, stopping to allow Carlotta to peek inside. The room was enormous, with an elaborately trayed ceiling and skylight. At the end of the room was a sitting area, with a fireplace and flat-screen TV, with a veranda beyond sets of French doors.

      Near the bed, she saw a dressing room through a doorway that she assumed serviced his-and-her walk-in closets. Through another doorway she glimpsed the bathroom and a waterfall shower.

      The bedroom furniture was dark and heavy and of the highest quality—the king-size bed alone had probably cost as much as his Porsche, she surmised, picturing Peter’s long frame stretched out on its length. The linens and curtains were earth toned and sumptuous, the inlaid designs in the wood floor a masterpiece. She wondered if he kept the Cartier engagement ring he was “holding” for her somewhere in this room.

      “It’s…wonderful,” she murmured, but shrank a little inside, mortified at what he must think of her housing situation. When she moved back to the town house, things had to change.

      “I’m glad you like it,” Peter said. “The room I had in mind for you is across the hall.”

      She followed him to a set of double doors that opened into a suite that was as light as his was dark. The furniture was maple, the linens fresh and airy, the area rugs plush. It was feminine in every sense, including the enormous closet and the spalike bathroom. Angela’s influence was apparent in every corner of this space. “It’s wonderful,” Carlotta murmured.

      “There are three other guest rooms if this one doesn’t suit you, including one in the basement.”

      Her eyes widened. “You have a basement?”

      He grinned. “Where else would I put the game room and wine cellar?”

      “Where else indeed?” Carlotta did a full turn in the center of the room, noticing that she had a veranda of her own, facing the front of the house, where the veranda off Peter’s room faced the rear. “It’s positively lovely, Peter. I feel like a princess.”

      “Good,” he said, then picked up a lock of her hair. “You deserve to feel like a princess. Take your time settling in. When you come down, I’ll show you the alarm system so you’ll feel safe when you’re here alone.”

      “Okay.” When he closed the door behind him, she fell backward on the luxurious bed, enjoying the bounce of the mattress. She gazed up at a skylight that was lined with prisms, turning the sun’s waning light into a thousand shimmering rainbows. Her life up until now seemed a thousand miles away.

      “Oh,” Carlotta sighed, “I could so get used to this.”

      4

      Wesley waited until the Town Car pulled away, then walked up to the front door of the Fulton County Morgue, a building so nondescript that most people driving by didn’t notice it. He’d never been through the front door before—as a body mover for Coop, he’d always entered through a side or rear delivery door with their solemn cargo. He walked up to a reception desk and flashed his body-hauler ID, then asked for Coop.

      “Dr. Craft is in the lab,” the woman at the desk told him. “Sign in and go on back. It’s next to the crypt.”

      “Got it,” he said, then signed his name and sauntered back, whistling under his breath. The Oxy seemed to be wearing off more quickly than before—a headache sparkled in his temples and his eyes felt itchy. But he didn’t want to dose before seeing Coop, not when he was trying to prove to the man that he could be trusted again.

      He shivered as he walked down the wide, harshly lit hallways—the expression “as cold as a morgue” was no exaggeration. The place was forty fucking degrees. Good for dead people, not so good for people with a pulse.

      He found the lab and pushed open the door to the sound of raised voices. On the other side of the room, two men squared off. Tall and shaggy Dr. Cooper Craft, former chief medical examiner, wore a lab coat over jeans and black Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Short and owlish Dr. Bruce Abrams, current chief medical examiner, wore slacks and a sport coat. The slighter, older man was bristling, his birdlike neck stretched forward.

      “Cooper, I’ve come to terms with you being here in the lab. But I can’t have you undermining my authority with the other M.E.s.”

      Coop shrugged, unfazed. “Then tell your people to stop coming into the lab to ask me questions.”

      “They’re accustomed to seeking your approval,” Abrams said. “It’s up to you to remind them that you’re not their boss anymore, that—” The man wiped his hand over his mouth.

      “That I’m just a lab rat and a body mover,” Coop supplied. “No problem, Bruce. I didn’t mean to cause you extra trouble. I know you’re swamped with this Charmed Killer business.”

      The other man nodded, then pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Between the police and the media, I’m feeling the pressure.”

      “Let me know if can help,” Coop said.

      The man jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Just stay out of my way.”

      Abrams turned and stalked toward the door, flicking his gaze over Wesley before walking past him, out of the room.

      Coop lifted his hand to Wes. “Come on in. Sorry about that.”

      Wes walked in. “If Abrams doesn’t want you here, how did you get the job in the lab?”

      Coop made a rueful noise. “The State Coroner’s Office asked me to come in and tackle the backlog of unsolved cases. It was meant to lighten Abrams’s load, but he doesn’t see it that way.”

      Coop moved toward a microscope, as if he’d already dismissed the matter. “Hand me that tray of slides on the table, will you?”

      Wes hustled and carried the slides carefully, concentrating in order to control the shaking of his hands.

      “Thanks,” Coop said, taking them from him.

      He watched as Coop removed a slide, put it under the microscope and adjusted the focus. “Whatcha looking at?”

      “DNA samples,”

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