And I’d eat it alone. Birdie was in North Carolina. So was Katy. Since I wasn’t supposed to be in Montreal, Ryan had Charlie at his place.

Where was Ryan? Probably out wining and dining with friends. Or maybe cocooned by a fire with his ex.

But Ryan swore he and Lutetia were history again. Were they?

Didn’t matter. That ship had sailed.

Had it?

My eyes were burning and my back was seriously cramped. I had to force myself to concentrate.

Unbidden, lyrics came winging through my brain.

I’ll have a blue Christmas without you… .

My eyes swept the room. Not a stocking or jolly Saint Nick in sight.

I was alone in a morgue ten days before Christmas.

I’d be alone at home.

Screw that. I vowed to call Ryan in the morning to ask for my bird. A cockatiel was better than no company at all. Maybe he and I could carol together.

“Four calling birds, three French hens …” I sang.

Screw tinsel and holly. What did Dickens say? Honor Christmas in your heart. Fine. I’d follow Old Charlie’s advice.

Whoa.

Charlie. Charlie.

Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed the coincidence.

Charlie, my cockatiel. Charlie, my old high school crush, now a lawyer in the Mecklenburg County Public Defender’s office in Charlotte.

Charlie and I had barely started seeing each other when I left North Carolina for my late-November rotation in Montreal. And, to be honest, our first date had not gone well.

That’s being charitable. I’d nose-dived from the wagon, binged on Merlot, then blown the guy off for a week.

I pictured Charlie Hunt, NBA tall, cinnamon skin, eyes the color of Christmas holly.

The vision did nothing to improve my mood.

Why was I stuck in this basement slogging through bones? What could I possibly accomplish tonight? I couldn’t establish ID. Hubert hadn’t bothered to provide Christelle Villejoin’s antemortem records.

“Weenie’s probably out swilling eggnog. Parked under mistletoe waiting for a mark.”

I was now in full self-pity mode.

“Two turtle doves …”

Sighing, I snatched up another phalange.

Both joint surfaces were dense and polished, their edges lacy with bony overgrowth. Arthritis. Moving that finger would have hurt like hell.

My mind shot to the same tableau as in the woods. An old woman, trembling by a pit in her skivvies and bare feet.

The image morphed. I saw Gran’s face the day she got lost at South-Park Mall. The panic in her eyes. The relief upon seeing me.

Guilt drop-kicked self-pity into the night.

“So this is Christmas,” I sang Lennon. “… and what have you done?”

I positioned the phalange.

I was selecting another when my mobile shattered the silence. I jumped, and the phalange flew from my hand.

My eyes flicked to the clock. Eight ten.

I checked caller ID.

Ryan.

Removing one glove, I snatched up the phone and clicked on.

“Brennan.”

“Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“I called your condo.” Did Ryan sound annoyed?

“I’m not there.”

There was a beat of silence. I listened but could hear no background noise.

“Are you still here?” Ryan asked.

“My answer would require knowledge of your present location.” I retrieved the phalange and placed it on the table.

“You’re in the morgue, right?”

“Technically, no. I’m in an autopsy room.”

Rationally, I knew my discontent was not due to Ryan. But he was on the line, so he was taking the hit.

“It’s Saturday night,” Ryan said.

“Just eleven days left, Kmart shoppers.”

Ryan ignored my sarcasm. “You’ve been here since three.”

“And?”

“You working the Oka ID?”

“No, I’m knitting the old gal a sweater.”

“You can be an Olympic pain in the ass, Brennan.”

“Practice pays.”

Pause.

“What’s so urgent it can’t wait a day?” Ryan asked.

“Once I finish the skeletal inventory, I can construct the biological profile and analyze the trauma. Then I can hike my hiney to a latitude where the mercury stands tall.”

“Have you eaten?”

Ryan’s question goosed my already significant irritation.

“Why this sudden interest in my diet?”

“Have you?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Would you like a ride home?”

I did.

“No, thanks.”

“It’s snowing.”

“Joy to the friggin’ world,” I said.

“I’m upstairs.”

“So I’m not the only loser lacking a life.”

“What would it take to get you to ride with me?” Patient.

“Chloroform.”

“Good one.”

“Thanks.”

There was a long silence before Ryan spoke again.

“I’m now primary on Villejoin, so I’ve been going through the file. I can fill you in.”

I said nothing.

“Fatigue fosters sloppy thinking,” he added.

Ryan’s point was a good one. And I did want background on the Villejoin investigation.

I glanced at the disarticulated skeleton. Of the two hundred and six bones, only the hand phalanges remained unincorporated.

Tomorrow was Sunday. Barring a major disaster, the table would not be needed. The room was a secure area. I’d left remains overnight before.

And I was tired.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten,” I said.

It was a decision I’d come to regret.

RYAN GOT HIS WAY BECAUSE I WAS TOO WEARY TO ARGUE. AND TOO hungry. That realization dawned as I was changing into the sweats I keep at the lab.

When asked my preference, I replied with the first foodstuff that popped to mind. Fish.

Ryan suggested Molivos. I agreed. It was a short walk to my condo from there.

Fifteen minutes after disconnecting we were slip-sliding along Avenue de Lorimier toward the Ville Marie Tunnel. The wipers were metronoming the windshield. Not a blizzard, but heavy enough snow.

While Ryan focused on driving, I checked e-mail on my BlackBerry.

Amazon wanted to sell me books. Abe’s of Maine wanted to sell me appliances. Boston Proper wanted to sell me clothes. Delete. Delete. Delete.

The Humane Society wanted me to donate more money. Fair enough. Save.

A colleague wanted me to speak at a conference in Turkey. Save for polite refusal.

Katy reported that Pete and Summer had left for a week in the Turks and Caicos. She asked when I’d return to Charlotte. I replied that I’d definitely be there in time for our trip to Belize on the twenty-first.

I’d also received two offers of products guaranteed to please my genitalia, and three proposals to make millions through African banks.

As I slid the device into its holder, Ryan exited the tunnel onto Atwater. At rue Sainte-Catherine he turned right, then left onto Guy. The few pedestrians hurried with shoulders hunched, heads bowed. Sidewalks, sills, and steps were already blanketed, and car roofs and street signs wore fuzzy white caps.

Ryan parked in a stretch legal only on alternate Wednesdays from April through August between the hours of two fourteen and four twenty-seven a.m. For firemen and Freemasons. Or something like that.

Voilà, le parking, Montréal-style.

Ryan and I jaywalked across Guy, then hurried downhill. Inside the restaurant, a man with pockmarked skin and a wandering eye ushered us to a table for two.

“Two days, two tavernas.” Ryan grinned. “Do I see a pattern?”

It was true. Same wooden furnishings. Same fishing nets. Same murals showing ruins or toga-clad deities. Here the tablecloths were blue-and-white checked.

“This place is fish,” I said. “Chicago was lamb.”

“I had the seafood combo.”

“You failed to exercise good judgment.”

“We should go to Greece.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mykonos has some primo nude beaches.” Exaggerated wink.

“In your dreams, Ryan.”

“Oh, yeah.”