A Dish Served Cold
FATIMA’S BODY WAS found at 4:28 pm. She had been stuffed into a trunk and buried less than two feet under the patio.
It was a nice trunk. Probably a little too nice. It was so nice that it kept out water and air. This meant Fatima’s body hadn’t decomposed the way it would have if they had just thrown her in the ground. It also meant there was the possibility of physical evidence. DNA. Finger prints. Hairs.
I would say we were lucky, but we weren’t.
Nothing was lucky about this.
For some reason, Fatima’s passport had been tossed in with her body. I watched Will carefully bag it. “The girl’s name was Fatima Zaidi. Pakistani national. Twenty years old.”
“Nineteen,” I muttered. “She was nineteen.”
“What was that?” Will glanced at me.
“Nothing.” I moseyed over and watched the forensic team finish their work. “I’m still processing everything.”
“I’ll bet.” Will chucked me on the shoulder. “Have you put this place on the market yet? Hired a mover? Because I would.”
I saw Gwen sitting in the corner, an untouched cup of coffee in her hands. “I don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“Sell,” Will replied. “Sell now.”
A yellow finch came out of nowhere and landed on the kitchen window sill. It chirped a few times before flying off. “We’ll see,” I said.