I deposited the other mail on the kitchen table and then retreated to my room, holding the envelope close to me like someone might suddenly appear in the empty house and snatch it away.
I’d thought I’d rip the envelope open once I finally received it, tear it apart so fast I’d risk harming the autopsy report inside. But that was before it was in my hands. Before I’d thought about what it might do to me—reading the description written by someone who’d cut into Anna, another written by someone else who’d tested the contents of her insides. It had been hard enough thinking about someone touching her clothes.
Still, here it was. Answers, contained within a thin envelope. I had to move forward with it.
I delicately ripped the envelope along the side, tipped out the sheet of paper within, and braced myself.
It was difficult to read the autopsy report, seeing it laid out in black-and-white. Her injuries, the clinical description of them, of her—Caucasian female, 5'2", brown hair, brown eyes. Her birthday, my birthday. A paint-by-number version of her.
I read it all, unsure where the toxicology results would be listed. Where the part about the alcohol would be. I read carefully, in case they used different language than I expected, in case it was reduced to a simple check in a box.
I am a good reader, a close reader. I don’t miss things—not facts, not details.
But that didn’t matter this time. Because the toxicology information simply wasn’t there.
—
THE WOMAN WHO PICKED UP the phone at the toxicology center was less than excited to take my call.
“We cannot provide any information to you over the phone. You’d need to officially request the report,” she said, with pauses between her words that indicated she was probably working over a piece of gum. “There’s a form online for that.”
“I did request the report. I have it right in front of me,” I said. “I just had some questions about it.”
She sighed. “If you already have the report, then all the information you need should be there.”
“Yes,” I said. “It should be. But I think there may have been a mistake.”
“That’s very unlikely,” she said. “We have a state-of-the-art facility here.”
“I’m sure you do, but my issue isn’t with the results, but with the fact that none are listed.”
Her sigh was louder the second time. “You know,” she said, “I’m going to transfer you to Dr. Travers. I’m sure she’ll be able to answer any questions you have.”
Before I could reply, music came on. A few minutes later, it switched off, and a brisk, slightly clipped voice came on the line.
“This is Dr. Travers. I understand you have a question about one of our reports?”
“Yes, I do—”
“Could you please provide the name of the tested party?”
“Anna Cutter.”
“One moment, I’ll bring it up in our system.”
I could hear the faint sound of her typing and then a pause.
“Can you please confirm the spelling of the last name?”
“Yes, it’s C-U-T-T-E-R.”
The keyboard keys clicked again in the background.
“It’s not coming up. When would this have been submitted?”
I thought back. “Early December, probably.”
“Okay, it’s possible, then, that we just don’t have that uploaded into the system yet.”
I shook my head, forgetting for a moment that she couldn’t see me. Because my parents had told me about it weeks ago, and they’d sat on it for a while before that. “Oh, this would have been processed at least a month ago.”
“Well, that’s just not possible,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve been backed up. We only just started tackling toxicology reports from December last week. It’s not like the TV shows, you know. It takes a long time to process these kinds of reports.”
“They told us, though,” I said. “They told my—me that they had the results.”
“You must have misunderstood them,” she said. “Or perhaps they misspoke.”
She sounded confident, like that must have been what happened. And it wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before, my misunderstanding something. But I didn’t think that was what happened here. This time I’d been paying very close attention.
He didn’t text me back after I sent the photo, and when I next saw him, he didn’t mention it. A foolish part of me hoped that meant he’d deleted it, or that it had gotten lost along the way—vanished into the ether.
“I NEED YOU TO EXPLAIN something to me,” I said.
The police chief looked up from his paperwork, pen poised over the form he’d been working on. He looked at me and then at the officer behind me. Then he slowly put down his pen, setting it beside the framed picture on his desk.
“What’s going on?” he asked, addressing his question not to me but to the officer.
“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “She demanded to see you, and then when I asked her to wait, she just marched on in.”
Demanded was a strong word, I thought. I would have said that I asked politely but firmly. Marched, however, was probably accurate.
“It has to do with my sister’s case,” I said to the police chief, ignoring the officer. “You’re in charge of that, right? You called my parents about the tox screen?”
The police chief nodded. “I did, that’s true.” He addressed the officer. “It’s all right. I’ll talk with her.”
“I’m so sorry,” the officer said again. “She really did just barrel past me. I couldn’t stop her.”
The police chief raised his eyebrows. “I think you have about a hundred pounds on her,” he said. “So I’m not sure she’s exactly the unstoppable force you seem to think she is.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said, his face reddening. “Would you like your door open or closed?”
“Closed is fine,” the police chief said.
After his door was closed, he turned to me. “Officer Heron mentioned that you came by a few weeks ago. She was worried she’d upset you.”
“This isn’t about that.”
He tilted his head. “I thought you said
