Chapter 8 · Locker Thirteen

The morgue smells like bleach trying to cover up something that won't stay covered.

I'm standing in front of locker thirteen with bolt cutters I stole from a construction site two blocks over, and my hands won't stop shaking. The map led here. Vivian's handwriting led here. The last page of that contract binder, hidden under the signature line in UV ink like she knew someone would come looking.

Someone did. Me. The idiot who can't leave things alone.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like they're about to die. It's 2 a.m. and the building's supposed to be empty, but I can hear something humming behind the walls. Refrigeration units, maybe. Or something else.

I fit the cutters around the cheap padlock. It's not even morgue property—someone added this themselves. Someone wanted locker thirteen sealed.

The lock snaps. The sound echoes.

I wait. Nobody comes.

I pull the locker door open and cold air hits my face, colder than it should be. There's a body bag inside, old, the kind of vinyl that's gone stiff and cracked at the edges. The tag says Jane Doe.