The first time Sara had performed an autopsy, her hand had shaken. As a doctor, she had been trained to use a light touch. As a surgeon, she had been taught that every cut made into the body should be calculated and controlled; every movement of her hand working to heal, not harm. The initial cuts made at autopsy- slicing into the body as if it were a piece of raw meat- went against everything she had learned.

She started the scalpel on the right side, anterior to the acromial process. She cut medial to the breasts, the tip of the blade sliding along the ribs, and stopped at the xiphoid process. She did the same on the left side, the skin folding away from the scalpel as she followed the midline down to the pubis and around the umbilicus, yellow abdominal fat rolling up in the sharp blade’s wake.

Carlos passed Sara a pair of scissors, and she was using these to cut through the peritoneum when Lena gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

Sara asked, “Are you-” just as Lena bolted from the room, gagging.

There was no bathroom in the morgue, and Sara assumed Lena was trying to make it upstairs to the hospital. From the retching noise that echoed in the stairwell, she hadn’t made it. Lena coughed several times and there was the distinct sound of splatter.

Carlos murmured something under his breath and went to get the mop and bucket.

Jeffrey had a sour look on his face. He had never been good around anyone being sick. “You think she’s okay?”

Sara looked down at the body, wondering what had set Lena off. The detective had attended autopsies before and never had a bad reaction. The body hadn’t really been dissected yet; just a section of the abdominal viscera was exposed.

Carlos said, “It’s the smell.”

“What smell?” Sara asked, wondering if she had punctured the bowel.

He furrowed his brow. “Like at the fair.”

The door popped open and Lena came back into the room looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what-” She stopped about five feet from the table, her hand over her mouth as if she might be sick again. “Jesus, what is that?”

Jeffrey shrugged. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Carlos?” Sara asked.

He said, “It’s… like something burning.”

“No,” Lena countered, taking a step back. “Like it’s curdled. Like it makes your jaw ache to smell it.”

Sara heard alarms go off in her head. “Does it smell bitter?” she asked. “Like bitter almonds?”

“Yeah,” Lena allowed, still keeping her distance. “I guess.”

Carlos was nodding, too, and Sara felt herself break out into a cold sweat.

“Christ,” Jeffrey exhaled, taking a step away from the body.

“We’ll have to finish this at the state lab,” Sara told him, throwing a sheet over the corpse. “I don’t even have a chemical hood here.”

Jeffrey reminded her, “They’ve got an isolation chamber in Macon. I could call Nick and see if we can use it.”

She snapped off her gloves. “It’d be closer, but they’d only let me observe.”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Sara said, slipping on a surgical mask. She suppressed a shudder, thinking about what might have happened. Without prompting, Carlos came over with the body bag.

“Careful,” Sara cautioned, handing him a mask. “We’re very lucky,” she told them, helping Carlos seal up the body. “Only about forty percent of the population can detect the odor.”

Jeffrey told Lena, “It’s a good thing you came in today.”

Lena looked from Sara to Jeffrey and back again. “What are you two talking about?”

“Cyanide.” Sara zipped the bag closed. “That’s what you were smelling.” Lena still didn’t seem to be following, so Sara added, “She was poisoned.”

Jeffrey yawned so hard his jaw popped. He sat back in his chair, staring out at the squad room through his office window, trying to appear focused. Brad Stephens, the youngest patrolman on the Grant County force, gave him a goofy grin. Jeffrey nodded, feeling a shooting pain in his neck. He felt like he had slept on a slab of concrete, which was appropriate, as the only thing between him and the floor last night had been a sleeping bag that was so old and musty that Goodwill had politely refused to take it. They had, however, accepted his mattress, a couch that had seen better days and three boxes of kitchen stuff Jeffrey had fought Sara for during the divorce. Since he had not unpacked the boxes in the five years since the papers were signed, he figured it would be suicide to take them back to her place now.

Clearing out his small house over the last few weeks, he had been startled by how little he had accumulated during his bachelorhood. Last night, as a substitute for counting sheep, he had made a mental list of new purchases. Except for ten boxes of books, some nice sheets that had been a gift from a woman he prayed to God Sara would never meet and some suits he had to buy for work over the years, Jeffrey had nothing new to show for the time they had lived apart. His bike, his lawn mower, his tools- except for a cordless drill that had been purchased when he accidentally dropped his old one into a five-gallon bucket of paint- had been in his possession that final day he’d left Sara’s house. And now, everything of value he ever owned had already been moved back.

And he was sleeping on the floor.

He took a swig of tepid coffee before returning to the task that had occupied the last thirty minutes of his morning. Jeffrey had never been one of those guys who thought reading directions somehow made you less of a man, but the fact that he had for the fourth time carefully followed every single step in the instruction sheet that came with the cell phone and still couldn’t program his own number into the speed dial made him feel like an idiot. He wasn’t even sure Sara would take the phone. She hated the damn things, but he didn’t want her traveling all the way to Macon without a way of getting in touch with him in case something happened.

He mumbled under his breath, “Step one,” as if reading the directions out loud would convince the phone to see logic. Sixteen more steps went by for a fifth time, but when Jeffrey pressed the recall button, nothing happened.

“Shit,” he said, pounding his fist into the desk, then “Fuck!” because he had used his injured left hand. He twisted his wrist, watching blood wick into the white bandage Sara had applied last night at the morgue. He threw in a “Jesus” for good measure, thinking the last ten minutes put a fine point on what was proving to be an extremely shitty day.

As if he had been summoned, Brad Stephens stood at the office door. “Need help with that?”

Jeffrey tossed him the phone. “Put my number on speed dial.”

Brad pressed some buttons, asking, “Your cell number?”

“Yeah,” he said, writing Cathy and Eddie Linton’s home number on a yellow Post-it. “This one, too.”

“Okeydoke,” Brad said, reading the number upside down, punching more buttons.

“You need the instructions?”

Brad gave him a sideways look, like Jeffrey might be pulling his leg, and kept programming the phone. Suddenly, Jeffrey felt about six hundred years old.

“Okay,” Brad said, staring at the phone, pressing more buttons. “Here. Try this.”

Jeffrey hit the phone book icon and the numbers came up. “Thanks.”

“If you don’t need anything else…”

“That’s fine,” Jeffrey said, standing from his chair. He slipped on his suit jacket, pocketing the phone. “I guess there haven’t been any hits on the missing persons report we put out?”

“No, sir,” Brad answered. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear.”

“I’ll be at the clinic, then back here.” Jeffrey followed Brad out of his office. He rolled his shoulder as he walked to the front of the squad room, trying to loosen up the muscles that were so tight his arm felt numb. The police station reception area had been open to the lobby at one time, but now it was walled in with a small banker’s window so visitors could check in. Marla Simms, the station’s secretary since before dirt, reached under her desk to buzz the door open for Jeffrey.