I hate dead babies.
Murder always cut to the core, but when the victim at my feet was an infant, that just made things worse. Okay, what really made things worse was the screaming that no one at this crime scene could hear but me. I looked around at the surrounding authorities in my distraction, but they just talked, whispered, and watched me, oblivious to the mournful wailing.
Sometimes it really sucked to be so damn special. If they could solve this without me, I wouldn’t be here; I’d still be sitting in a crappy restaurant, pissed-off at one of my two boyfriends over my other special issue. Yet here I was, everyone’s favorite Wiccan police clairvoyant—with a dead baby, and an uncomfortable police contingency team waiting for supernatural answers to a decidedly mundane human crime. So good to be me. Too bad sarcasm and inner wit wasn’t doing the hard work. “Pull it together, Zoë,” I whispered.
I fingered the dead leaves around the body bag. Two sizes, the medical examiner had told me years ago—body bags came in only two sizes: little and big. “You should be glad we don’t use sheets anymore,” he had said, and today I was indeed grateful.
