The other was a picture of my parents, taken just a year or so before my mother got sick. In the picture, they were sitting next to each other on a low oak tree branch at City Park in New Orleans, with my mother leaning against my dad, his arms around her. Her hands were clasped around one knee and her head was tipped back against him, her blond hair teased by a breeze.

This was one memory that was fixed forever in my essence. I’d taken that photo when I was six years old, having begged and whined and pleaded to be allowed to use my dad’s 35 mm. I’d used up nearly the whole roll of film, and this had been the best picture of the small handful that came out.

Rhyzkahl’s gaze lingered on the photo for long enough that I had an unnerving desire to snatch it away from him. For some reason I didn’t like the thought of him looking at it, whether through my dreams or in reality. “Do you still have a link to my dreams?” I demanded.

This time true delight lit his eyes. “You miss my presence in your bed?”

I glared at him, refusing to rise to his bait. It was beside the fact that there was a measure of truth in his words.

He came to me, sliding a hand through my hair. He cupped the back of my neck, then pulled me close and kissed me again—a powerful kiss, and one that showed just how much he was in control. Then he released me, leaving me to stagger to regain my balance, skin aflame with heat.

“The dream link I had to you was destroyed when you died in my realm,” he said, inclining his head to me as I struggled to control the mad thrum of my pulse. “And that was your third question. A pity. Now you will need to summon me again to seek answers to more questions.”

Then, before I could respond or react, he stepped back and was gone in a flash of white light.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to sleep, as annoyed as I was at both Rhyzkahl and myself. But three glasses of wine helped chill me out, and that, combined with my overall exhaustion level, allowed me to sleep until nearly seven a.m., which was good since I knew it was going to be a long day. Although it was a Sunday, Dr. Lanza was performing the autopsies on Brian and Carol Roth this morning, and once that was finished I needed to pay a visit to Tessa.

“Three questions,” I grumbled. I glared at myself in the mirror and tugged a brush through my hair. “You couldn’t handle three simple questions.” I’d even been lucky enough to have questions already written out, and I’d still screwed it up. And now it would be another month before I could summon him again.

He was sneakier than I’d expected. That, or I was stupider.

I scowled as I put on mascara. “Stupider. Definitely stupider.”

The door to the morgue was propped open with a chunk of concrete when I arrived. Doc wasn’t at his desk in the outer office, so I stepped in and peered into the cutting room, wrinkling my nose at the odor. It wasn’t a dead body smell. This morgue never smelled like that. The morgue tech, Carl, was obsessive-compulsive about cleaning, and the stench of bleach and other cleaning products was nearly overwhelming.

The door to the cooler on the opposite side of the room swung open and Carl exited, pushing a stretcher with a black body bag on it into the room. Carl was Doc’s right-hand man in the morgue and often helped out with body collections—or “body-snatching,” as it was gruesomely termed. I’d never seen him ruffled, even at the grossest or strangest of death scenes. He did his work with a silent efficiency that would have been dour if dour wasn’t too much of an emotion for him to display.

He saw me and gave me a barely visible nod. “Morning.”

“Morning, Carl. Helluva way to spend a Sunday.”

“Busy week. The fridge is full.” The way he said it made it sound like he’d just gone grocery shopping.

“Where’s Doc?”

“Traffic. On his way.” He pushed the stretcher up against the metal table that was locked into place at the sink. “Gonna cut the Roths today,” he continued as he smoothly unzipped the bag. “The councilman will probably be tomorrow.”

I felt almost overwhelmed by what was the equivalent of a verbal barrage from the normally silent and seemingly emotionless morgue tech. I also couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment that Doc wouldn’t be doing all three while I was here, though I knew that I was being selfishly unrealistic, especially since it was a Sunday. But I really wanted to find some connection between Brian Roth and Davis Sharp, anything that could point me to an answer as to why both had no essence left. Doc had a shitload of experience, having worked in Las Vegas and Houston before taking the job with St. Long Parish, and I had a lot of faith in his opinion.

Oh, well. Nothing to do but be patient. “You, uh, need any help?” I asked Carl.

He lifted his head to look at me as if he’d never really seen me before. I couldn’t decide if his direct gaze was creepy or not.

The faintest whisper of what might have been a smile shimmered on his face, then he nodded toward a side table. “Gloves and smocks there.”

I turned to the table, forcing myself not to grimace. I’d offered to help more out of courtesy than a desire to handle bodies, but I couldn’t back out now. I found a smock and pulled the blue plastic over my head, tying it at the waist the way I’d seen Doc and Carl do it, then snagged gloves out of the box marked Small and tugged them on.

Carl had folded the flap of the bag back, revealing the body of Carol Roth. The scarf was still wound around her throat, damp and limp from the moisture of being in the cooler, the dark-red fabric stark against the waxy pallor of her skin. Now that the blood had settled and lividity was fixed, I could see faint ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. A little bondage play before the asphyxia, or was there more to it? And, to my relief, I could still feel the faintest hum of essence about her. I knew it wouldn’t be there for much longer. I surreptitiously touched her arm with a gloved finger, confirming for myself that she felt “normal.”

“Stupid way to die,” Carl murmured.

He kept surprising me with the conversation. Or maybe I’d formed an opinion of him as emotionless and dour because I’d never really had a chance to talk to him. “I agree,” I replied. I couldn’t see how the risk of death could be worth the erotic thrill.

He moved to the other side of the metal table, then reached across and grabbed the body by the arm and knee, giving a sharp tug to slide her into position. “She was an easy one,” he said, straightening her limbs on the table.

I frowned, Jill’s comment about Brian and Carol having marital problems suddenly coming back to me. “You mean she slept around?”

He paused, his hands stilling on her legs, and looked up at me. “Actually, I was referring to her weight and how simple it was to get her onto the table. It’s not as pretty when it’s someone weighing four hundred pounds.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry.”

He kept looking at me, hands still motionless on the woman’s thighs. “But it’s funny you should say that.”

“What, that she slept around?”

He made a small motion with his head that I was fairly certain was a nod. “She had a reputation.”

Now, that added a new dimension. “Was she cheating on Brian?”

“I don’t know that. She’d been married before, to a lawyer in Mandeville. Supposedly he caught her with one of the other lawyers who worked in his firm. Divorced her.”

So maybe it hadn’t been Brian after all. A frisson of relief surged through me at the thought. I knew that I was basing a lot of hope on what was—at the moment—merely gossip about Carol, but I also knew there’d be plenty of other people in the department who’d feel the same way if Brian’s name could be cleared.