When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

She blinked heavily at him. “No. I suppose not. Do I just go home now?” “There are papers you’ll need to sign. But we were wondering—” He paused to clear his throat, his eyes skittering away briefly. “We were hoping you’d be able to help us with something else.” Christine felt the first icy pangs of uneasiness. Something about the change in his voice, his sudden reluctance to look her in the eye, made her scalp prickle. “Help you with what?” Connelly looked down at his shoes and sighed. “It’s a rather delicate matter, actually. One I wish to hell I could spare you. But the fact is . . .” The words fell away, his eyes straying again, this time to a gurney on the opposite side of the room. “We need your help, Christine.” Uneasiness morphed into dread as her gaze slid along with Connelly’s to the nondescript white mound on the second gurney. He was shifting from foot to foot now, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. “Stephen’s wasn’t the only body we pulled from his car,” he said gruffly. “Unfortunately, no identification was found for the second victim. We were hoping . . .” The attendant was there suddenly, his blue latex gloves hovering expectantly over the sheet. Connelly gave him a curt nod. No one spoke as the sheet came away, and in the silence, Christine became aware of a clock ticking somewhere. Heavy. Hollow. Like a pulse. And then she found herself staring at a woman. She was a ghastly shade of white, her platinum hair fanned out from her head in a snarled, sodden...