They said my brother overdosed on a Tuesday.
By Wednesday morning, his body was gone.
The florescent lights in the hospital corridor hummed like insects, too bright, too white, buzzing against the inside of my skull. The nurse at the desk wouldn’t meet my eyes when she handed me the clipboard. Her fingers trembled, paper crinkling.
“Next of kin signature, Ms. Quinn.” She swallowed. “For the personal effects.”
“My brother’s body,” I said. My voice sounded wrong—flat, like it belonged to someone who wasn’t shaking on the inside. “You still haven’t shown me his body.”
Her gaze flinched away. “The doctor will explain—”
“The doctor told me he OD’d and that’s that.” I leaned closer over the counter. “I do not sign anything until I see him. I’m not putting my name on a lie.”
It came out sharper than I meant. The air between us tightened. Somewhere down the hall a monitor started beeping frantically.
The nurse licked her lips. She was young, freckles, dark circles under her eyes. “Ms. Quinn, there was… a transfer. Overnight.”
My stomach lurched. “To where?”
“I’m not authorized—”
Something inside me pressed against my skin, a familiar, ugly pressure, like a storm cloud trapped in bone. The overhead lights flickered. Once. Twice.
The nurse’s eyes went wide. “I— I’ll get the doctor.” She abandoned the clipboard and practically ran through the swinging door, as if she’d been waiting for an excuse to flee.
The humming grew louder. My fingertips tingled. Don’t. Not here.
I dug my nails into my palms until I felt the sharp sting cutting through the buzzing in my head. Breathe in, Mara. Out. Don’t feel anything. Not anger, not fear, nothing.
The lights steadied. The storm in my chest banged once against my ribs, furious, then sank back into the dark.
No body. No answers. “Overdose,” they said, as if that explained why the nurse looked like she’d seen a ghost and the morgue wouldn’t take my calls.
I walked out of the hospital with the plastic bag of Liam’s things clutched like a lifeline. His phone, his wallet, a cheap silver chain I’d bought him years ago. No death certificate. No explanation.
Outside, the January air bit into my cheeks, raw and damp. The parking lot smelled like exhaust and old rain. A line of cars glittered under the weak sun before dissolving into city haze.
And then I saw it.
A black car waited at the curb. Not just black—black the way a threat is, sleek and silent, soaking in the light. Tinted windows, engine idling so quietly it could’ve been a shadow.
Every instinct I had screamed, don’t.
I adjusted my grip on the plastic bag and started walking the other direction.
The rear window of the car rolled down with a soft mechanical sigh.
“Ms. Quinn.”
My name in that voice wrapped around me like cold metal. Low, precise, edged with something that felt like a warning more than a greeting.
I stopped without meaning to. I turned.
He sat in the back seat like it was a throne, like the entire street bent around the fact that he existed. Late thirties, maybe. Dark hair cut neat against his head, an expensive coat open over a black shirt, no tie. His face was all sharp planes and restraint, mouth unsmiling, eyes a cool, unreadable gray that took me in as if assessing a threat.
