“You didn’t hear the door?” Jeff asks.

I look past him as though I’ve never seen the door before and shake my head. “No . . . I was thinking.”

He looks dubious, his mustache twitching as he purses his lips. “That’s what we’re calling daydreaming now?”

Alver snickers but covers it with a cough, and my spine finds some steel. As if either of them has the right to complain about that. Jeff’s the sheriff, and more than once, I’ve caught him ‘pondering’ a case in his office. And Alver sometimes likes to ‘give something a good think’ with his eyes closed and his hands laced over his stomach.

I won’t call them on it yet, though. “What’s up, Jeff?”

He catches the change in tone and seems almost thankful for the return to a more professional vibe where he doesn’t have to pretend to care whether I’m okay or not.

“I wanted to talk to you about something . . . uh . . .” Jeff stumbles over his words and looks to Alver, who recoils at the attention. “I mean, we’ve received a report about some concerning after-hours activity down here. And I wanted to follow up to make sure you’re aware that there are rules, especially where the bodies are concerned—”

“What the hell?” I say a little too loudly, and both men flinch.

Jeff’s hand even reflexively reaches for his gun, which is thankfully holstered with the snap in place. Are they shitting me? Alver told on me. He didn’t have the guts to talk to me himself and instead went over my head to Jeff.

Wait . . . did Jeff say bodies? What the hell did Alver say he saw?

Oh, God, did he talk to Human Resources?

That sounds official, but the reality is, our HR department is Tricia Adams, and her most heinous power is in spreading gossip faster than a NASCAR winner’s race pace.

The whole town’s gonna think I’m getting freaky with DBs on the next table. The very idea is disgusting and disrespectful, to me and to the people I try to give a proper, honorable processing.

I turn the full force of my meanest glare to Alver, standing slowly from my chair to my full five-foot-six-inch height in my rubber work clogs. I thought he was a friend, or at least the closest thing I had to one here in the office. After all, no one else bothers to make sure I eat dinner.

But I was mistaken because a friend would’ve simply asked me before involving the boss. Once Alver is suitably shaking in his boots, I turn my attention to Jeff, who still looks uncomfortable as hell. In fact, his cheeks are flushed pink and there’s a sheen on his forehead even though it’s a brisk sixty-eight degrees in the morgue.

I lick my lips once and then, with ice dripping from every word, tell them both, “I am well aware of all the rules that affect me, the DBs, and my morgue. I would never do anything to jeopardize the Williamson County Coroner’s Office. I think if you ask Alver further, what he saw was a county employee who was injured on the job being assisted by a citizen. And when presented with that, Alver—who I believe took an oath to serve and protect—ran like a screaming little girl.”

Boom . . . mic drop.

If Alver’s gonna tell shit on me, I’ll throw him under the bus too. Petty? Fine, it is. But I need some damage control here or I’ll never be able to show my face at our one and only gas station again. And honestly, my feelings are hurt and I’m lashing out.

Jeff glances over his shoulder to Alver. “That true?”

Alver seems pissy about being called out. Join the club, happens to me all the time, nearly every damn day.

“She was sitting on the table, pretty as you please, with that guy on his knees in front of her.” He sounds smug as a bug in shit.

“He was checking out my ankle, which I turned,” I shout, my cold fury melting into righteous hot anger.

“You cried out!” Alver growls.

“In pain, not ecstasy, numb nuts!” I growl back. “And if you don’t know the difference, I feel damn sorry for your wife.”

Jeff’s lips quirk, threatening to smile despite his attempt to take this whole mess seriously.

“Let’s calm down, people.” Jeff holds his hands out, one palm to me and one to Alver as though he thinks one of us is going to lunge for the other. Honestly, he probably assumes it’d be me. Of course he does, because I’m . . . me.

To my surprise, Jeff turns his eyes to Alver, though. “Is what Zoey said true? All you saw was her sitting on a table—pretty as you please, I believe you said—and this guy kneeling? No body parts strewn about or anything . . . ahem, sexual actually happening?”

I harrumph at the very question, and Alver’s brows are drawn down low as though he’s surprised this is how this conversation is going.

“I guess, but you know, she’s . . . Zoey. So . . .”

“So, what? I’m some freak who’s having sex in the middle of the morgue?” I yell, not caring if my voice carries through the air vents to the floor upstairs. This is ridiculous. “Honestly, Alver . . . if that’s where your mind goes, that speaks volumes about you, not me.”

Jeff clears his throat, probably wishing this were already over. “Okay, I think we’re going to file this under Office Misunderstandings and pretend we never had this conversation. Or at least I’m going to go listen to Baby Shark on repeat so I can scrub this whole incident out of my mind. You two can do whatever you need to. I’ve got to get back upstairs and finish paperwork so I can get out of here on time tonight. Martha’s going to have my hide if I’m late again.”