her. Sad. Lost. Full of guilt and grief and empty acceptance.
Hair glinting gold beneath the bright, summer sun…the red towel their mother had pinned in place beneath his jaw, fluttering straight out behind him like a cape…Sean raced across the yellowing grass, his arms straight out at his side, his gleeful shrieks piercing her ears…“Look Sarah, look. I’m superman. I can fly—”
“That’s him.” Brett’s grim voice ruptured the memory.
“We need a verbal identification.”
“That’s Sean Gillespie.” Brett paused, his arm tightening around Sarah, as though bracing her. “How did he die?”
A rustle of paper followed the question. “Looks like a drug overdose. He was found in a park, tourniquet and a bag of 1cc needles beside him. Looks like DOD was two months ago.”
“Two months…” Brett’s voice turned thoughtful. His chair shifted, screeching again. “Sarah talked to him around then. He must have died soon after.”
The blond detective glanced down at the open manila file. “He remained at the morgue until two weeks ago. When his body wasn’t claimed by family, it was buried.”
Sarah stirred. He’d been buried? In a strange town, far from home? Without a service? Mom wouldn’t want that. She’d want her baby boy next to her. Sarah forced herself to think past the hollow emptiness in her mind. She needed to make this right.
“How—” She paused to clear the hoarseness from her voice. “How do I go about taking him home?”
“You’ll need a permit to exhume the body.” The darker-haired detective answered. His voice gentled. “We can put you in touch with someone to help you with the permits on this end. But you’ll need to contact a funeral parlor in San Diego to receive his body.”
“Thank you.” Sarah forced the dull politeness out, when all she wanted to do was scream.
A muddle of voices filled the moment of silence. Empty, unimportant chatter. Sean was dead. Nothing else mattered.
“The morgue may still have his personal effects. There’s more room to store physical items than bodies. There’s a good chance that they haven’t discarded what he came in with yet,” one of the detectives said.
The arm around her waist cinched even tighter. “Thanks. We’ll look into that.”
His personal effects. Bodies. Sarah flinched as the words struck her, as the reality hit home.
Sean was dead…dead…gone.
Her baby brother was gone. She’d never see that half sneer, half smile again. Never hear his laugh. Never have another chance to save him.
“You said he died of a drug overdose?” Brett asked, his voice thoughtful.
More rustling of paper. “That was the coroner’s conclusion.”
“Hey big sis…you know I love you, right? …appreciate everything you’ve done for me…given me…like that leather jacket you got me. I love that damn thing. It’s the best gift ever. I ripped the seam a couple days ago, but I got it repaired. Looks good as new. Love that damn thing. Love you too…you know that, right?”
Sean’s last phone call rolled through her mind. His voice had been slurred, his words random. She’d suspected he was high.
“The toxicology report indicated a lethal amount of heroin in his blood,” the blond detective continued.
Sarah frowned. Something about the cop’s words niggled at her. She fought to focus, to concentrate. Something was off here. Something important. She went back over his words in her mind.
Found in a park, needle beside him. Toxicology report. Lethal amount of heroin.
“Wait.” She rubbed her forehead and frowned, trying to shake the fog from her brain. Dropping her hand, she stared at the two detectives across the table. “You said heroin?”
The detective glanced down at the report in front of him. “That’s right. That’s what they found in his blood.”
“No.” Sarah shook her head, her frown gathering force. “That’s not right. Sean never used heroin.”
The brown-haired detective leaned back in his chair, an absent frown pinching his eyebrows together. “Heroin deaths are up over thirty-one percent from last year. He probably escalated. It’s common in drug addicts.”
Sarah shook her head, the certainty growing that something was off. Way off. “Not Sean. He hated needles. Had a real phobia about them. He never shot up. Never. He did just about everything else. Swallowed, snorted, inhaled, smoked. But he never shot up. He never used a needle.”
The two detectives looked unconvinced.
Brett released his grip around Sarah’s waist and leaned forward. “Porter told Sarah Mitch killed him. Did you check into whether the scene was staged? Whether the overdose was intentional, rather than accidental?”
Something inside Sarah unclenched at his instant acceptance of her claim. At least he still trusted her when