Detective Marty Quinn’s job is a lot like dipping your face in a pool or the ocean, where you leave your ears floating halfway between one world and the other. The above and the below. You get a hint of the diluted, swirling side, but you’re still anchored in what you know. Then comes the pull. An act of mercy. Like someone taking a fistful of wet hair and yanking you back into comfortable reality. Or it’s the other way around–the push–where someone takes that same hand and shoves you down into a new set of circumstances and you’re forced to adapt.
Marty felt like he was drowning when he came back to his beachside apartment and found the limp body of his wife of seven days, posed in the pea-green easy chair she vowed to get rid of the first time she laid eyes on it (It’s so 2025, she had said).
The majority of her appearance said she’d come home from a hard day of paralegal work and simply fell asleep. Head tilted down and to the side, tucked into her right shoulder. The only distortion to the picture was the stain of blood running from a line crossing her throat, onto the pink-rose colored dress Marty had bought her two days ago.
“I’m sorry, Marty.”
Marty said nothing. Only stared at the bottom of the sheet covering Diana. Three of her sky blue-painted toenails were sticking out. It was a sloppy job, whoever placed the sheet.
“We can get Pierre to work this. You don’t need to be here.”
Of course they weren’t going to let him work the case, but Kate, the coroner, wasn’t going to outright say that. She was one of the few people that Marty worked with whom he felt he could call a friend.
“I have a spare bedroom. You know Leonard would love to have you stay with us for awhile.”
Marty may have nodded, but all he felt was that cold water surrounding his face, the unrelenting hand of fate denying him breath.
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