Page 78 of My Killer Blind Date

I compose a text message to Bill, letting him know in as simple terms as possible that Zoe’s remains have just been found, and as I was her closest friend, I’ll want to rent space to have a memorial for her. Bill is bound to be a bit shocked, but I can’t worry about that now. Then I call George, who utterly drains me with her off-the-charts empathy. After we hang up, my body is so overwhelmed, I sink down right where I am, in Zoe’s doorframe. First, I lean against it – then I lie down the rest of the way, collapsing gently until I’m curled in a fetal position on my side. I lie there until, finally, as the day dims, I fall asleep.

Chapter Twenty-six

As soon as I get to work on Monday, Bill calls me into his office to let me know the coroner finished all the necessary testing, and Zoe’s foot and ashes are being released. If I’d like, I can be the one to pick them up.

‘Yeah. I’d like that. Thanks,’ I say, and grab the keys to one of the company vehicles, grateful that he’s chosen not to grill me about hiding my relationship with Zoe from him.

It’s strangely routine, signing the paperwork. I don’t need a gurney for this one, of course. It’s light, and I’ve brought a cooler to put the foot in for the drive. I slide it into the passenger seat, because it feels too coldhearted to put it in the back. I think about buckling it. Which is ridiculous. On the other hand, if I make a sudden stop, I don’t want it to tip over and dump out the foot.

I buckle it, settling the clear plastic bag of ashes on the floor.

I turn the radio on to a station Zoe might have liked, then off. This is weird. Time to drive.

In a moment of timing you couldn’t plan if you tried, just as I’m driving away, Barnett calls back. As I roll to a stop at a red light, I swipe to answer and put him on speaker.

‘Margot. I’ve been in touch with the coroner. My condolences.’

‘Yeah. Thanks,’ I say, my voice emotionless. It’s hard to accept sympathy from someone who didn’t believe me about Zoe being in trouble, and didn’t believe me about Liam either. ‘So what’s going on with your investigation?’

‘We’re working on it. I’m going over the coroner’s report as well, and the pictures. I don’t have any updates I can share with you yet—’

‘No updates?’ I explode. ‘What about Liam? What’s the status there? Did you hear my voicemail? He’s out there, and dangerous and – someone new has just disappeared. Brooke Walsh. I know she’s connected. He might have her somewhere. He has a cabin—’

‘We’ll be bringing him in for questioning, and I’ll send someone to check out the cabin. I also have security footage from the restaurant, which I’ll be reviewing today.’

‘OK,’ I say, my voice ragged. I take a deep breath. ‘OK.’

With any luck, Liam will be behind bars soon, and for good.

One tiny flicker of regret sparks when I remember our encounter in the outdoor shower.

But I shut that shit down.

*

When I arrive back at the funeral home, I bring the remains straight downstairs to the basement where the cremation retorts are located.

Inside, Devin is at a control panel. A casket is sitting on a conveyor belt at the mouth of one of the side-by-side furnaces. It’s hot down here. I’ve been here once before, during my new employee tour of the facility, but didn’t have a lot of time to really take it in. The walls are cinder block halfway up, with a visible seam where it transitions to drywall. The ceiling is unfinished, revealing piping, ventilation ducts and the stainless-steel chimney for the smoke from the cremation process. In the left corner, water stains zig zag up through a network of cracks. The only shiny thing about this space are the two retorts, which Bill upgraded a few years ago and proudly described as ‘state of the art.’

I wait quietly until Devin sees me.

‘Margot,’ he says, his voice raspy. He’s pale, with red-rimmed eyes as he walks toward me. His throat bobs. ‘Bill told us about Zoe.’

‘Yeah.’ I feel like I should say more, but I’m not sure what. ‘Do you … want to see it?’

He steps closer. I pop off the lid, and there it is, her foot, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, sitting on the ice packs.

We both look at it.

There’s a gagging sound next to me.

‘Sorry—’ says Devin, and rushes from the room. I hear him puking just outside. I hope he made it to a trash can.

When he comes back in, he’s wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘Normally it’s just blood that gets me. Wasn’t expecting that to happen.’

‘It’s OK. It’s a lot. I understand.’