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My lips twitched with the urge to grin, enchanted by her cold apathy and general appearance. My kind of girl.

“I’m here to see Shay Finkley,” I told her.

That had her look up, her dark eyes doing a quick once-over of me. “You’re not a cop, or a suit,” she deduced, taking in my Def Leppard tee, ripped jeans, boots, and smudged makeup.

When I masqueraded as a fed, I usually had a cheap suit, would brush my hair, tone down the makeup.

I shook my head. “Thank fuck for that.”

“And you’re not a grieving family member.” Her eyes thinned to slits, deciding I wasn’t upset enough to be one. And I doubted a family member would get there so quickly. I was counting on that. The last thing I needed to deal with was the fallout of a werewolf kill. I liked to distance myself from that when I could.

“Nope.” I smiled as if to punctuate my point. “I’m a friend.”

Her eyes bugged out as she pulled her feet off the desk. “Of Shay’s?”

I nodded.

She eyed me shrewdly, with healthy distrust. “Shay doesn’t have friends. Not any that are alive, at least.”

I winced inwardly. Shay’s appearance might have changed for the better over the years, but it seemed her social standing had not. Sucked for her. And it doubly sucked for her that I was pretending to be a friend only because I wanted something from her.

My profession was not noble nor was I. Yet I felt a stab of guilt anyway.

“I’m surprising her.” I tried to put on the persona of someone who did friendly drop-ins and surprised people. I had no idea such people even truly existed. My smile probably looked a touch maniacal. I lifted the paper bag I was holding. “I brought lunch.”

Already looking bored with me, the receptionist waved her hand. “Her office is down the hall to the left. If you’re planning on eating in there.” Her gaze raked over me again. “We just got two deadies in. It wasn’t a pretty end, from what I understand. I wouldn’t advise it if you have a weak stomach.”

I swallowed a smile, trying to look appropriately morose. “I think I can handle it.”

The receptionist muttered, “whatever,” then went back to scrolling.

What a girl.

I was happy that she didn’t follow the protocols of having me sign in or present identification. All the more complicated when I actually had to use my legal name. There would be no record of me being here, since a glance at the ancient security camera told me that it was for decoration purposes only.

The short walk took me to an office, which was empty and neat as a pin. Everything organized, not a speck of dust, even if the computer situated on the desk looked like it was around to survive Y2K.

The smell of formaldehyde irritated my nostrils, having gone from faint to cloying. Her office was almost directly across from the double doors of what I assumed was the morgue.

I placed the bag of food on Shay’s desk, nosing around just because it was my habit. There were no photos on it. Nothing but color-coded pens and a yellow legal pad. Her walls were sparse, just a framed medical license and an older painting of a plant that looked out of place in the lifeless space void of any kind of personality.

There was also a mounted page from a book—a quote in Latin. I squinted at it. “Mortui viventes docent.”

The dead learn the living? No, the dead teach the living. My Latin was not perfect, but it was more than rudimentary. I probably read and spoke it better than tenured professors. Their lives didn’t depend on a misplaced vowel.

The quote made sense, given her profession, but it was at odds with the sterile environment. I rounded the desk to try the drawers, hoping she might have ten years’ worth of autopsy reports stacked neatly for me to comb through.

No such luck.

They were locked. Which was standard, I guessed. Though I’d found my way into plenty of sloppy coroner’s offices where I got files I needed right off their desks. They were always men, though. Men were always arrogant enough to think their spaces were sacred, safe. Women knew better than to think they could have something private and theirs without it being violated eventually.

“Hadley?”

Shit.

I looked up, finding Shay standing in the doorway of her office, rubbing hand sanitizer into her palms. She adjusted her glasses, gazing at me behind her desk with an arched brow.

She was wearing slim-fitting black scrubs, a white coat on top. An ID was clipped to her pocket with a small charm hanging from it. A skull. I suppressed a smile. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, having only minimal makeup on but still looking pretty, if a little severe and sad.