The Wrong Girl

10

Kellianne Sessions wished for the billionth time for some way to avoid looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy. It was completely freezing out, so she’d layered tights and a long-sleeved leotard under her jeans and T-shirt, zipped herself into the required white Tyvek, then put her white puffer jacket over that. Why she had to wear the moon suit now, before they even started, was totally ridiculous. But Kevin said the clients bought into it, said it made their Afterwards crew look “professional.” Her brother, the big shot.

If Kev was such a big shot, how come they always, always, got to the murder scenes too early? She was sick of it, sick of waiting, sick of this stupid job and sick of the whole gross idea.

But that’s what the Sessions family did. Kevin, Keefer, and Kellianne. And their mother, Karen, who kept the books and made the appointments and got their hazmat certifications and made sure their dad ordered enough cleaning stuff. If it was good enough for your father… Her brain gagged at her mother’s perpetual chant. If she never heard it again, it’d be too soon. Talk about soon. Soon she’d finish her classes, pay off her tuition bills, buy a one-way ticket to someplace warm with palm trees and water and no freaking snow and no freaking dead people to clean up after.

Someday.

Right now, she was cramped into the incredibly hot back seat of the Afterwards truck, Keefer in the front seat zoned out with his ear buds, Kevin inside the triple-decker. She’d bet ten billion dollars they were too early again. She wiped a place on the car window with her fingers to see out. The news people were still here, for crap sake, she recognized that hooker-looking girl from Channel 5. And that was absolutely the ME’s white van parked by the hydrant. Long as the ME was still here, they couldn’t go in and start. Even she knew that.

“Yo, team.” Kevin opened the driver’s side door, blasting her with cold air.

Team. What a full-blown moron. Who died and put him in charge? She winced, remembering the morning’s visit to the hospital. Well, their father hadn’t died yet.

Keefer looked up, his head still moving in time to whatever played on his iPod.

“We’re in, we’re golden.” Kevin cranked the heat up even higher. “Gotta wait till the news conference ends, then the ME’s guys are coming to take the body. Maybe an hour or two. Then us. So we’ll stand by. Ten-four?”

Kellianne rested her forehead against the chilly glass, staring at nothing. Ten-four? What a moron. They were so screwed. And Keefer and Kevin never seemed to care.

She was counting the days.

Ella stood, motionless, waiting. Listening. That had been a sound, she was sure. But now, standing with fingertips barely touching her boss’s desk, she had second thoughts. Maybe she was a little jumpy. Well, okay, guilty, because how could she explain why she was going through papers in her boss’s office?

Well, she could, but the explanation would not be a good one. She was supposed to go through channels, Mr. Brannigan always said. Snooping through files on a Sunday was not channels.

She counted to ten, silently, then to ten again. Listening.

Ella, you’re losing it, girl. She tried a tiny smile, wondering if she could smile her fear away. Whistling a happy tune would make noise. The silly thought made her smile again.

She nodded, convincing herself. She was alone. There was no one outside.

Should she go look?

Easing herself back into Lillian’s leather chair, she leaned down and gathered the spilled papers back into the manila file. What she could also do, of course, was copy it all. Then, from home, she could call this not-Audrey-Rose-Beerman, this (she checked the file) Tucker Cameron. See what she could find out.

Who would know?

Niall Brannigan stood, silent, in the muted light of the carpeted hallway, watching the glow of light under Lillian Finch’s office door. He’d checked the parking lot. No cars. A few taps on his office computer confirmed Ella Gavin’s pass card had been swiped two hours before. Naturally, he hadn’t announced to the staff that he could monitor their pass card use. Why offer his employees knowledge they didn’t need?

Never one to rush a decision, he imagined-in fact savored-what would happen if he simply opened the door of Lillian’s office and confronted the girl. She was a girl to him, no matter what he was supposed to call her.

One other option was to do nothing. Give her enough rope to hang herself. She’d have to walk out at some point, use her pass card to leave. He could check the time remotely from his home. On Monday, he could ask this young lady exactly what she thought she was doing.

Enough rope, he decided.

He spun the gold links of his watchband around his wrist, feeling their slickly solid weight, remembering the same watch on his father’s wrist. What would his father have done with such an impertinent employee? One who disregarded protocol and thumbed her nose at procedure? One who was clearly snooping where she didn’t belong?

His smile broadened. Who cared what his father would’ve done?

Niall was in charge at the Brannigan now.