Her workspace is confusing. The office part of the area is pure chaos, a mess of papers and files. On the other side, a few metal examination tables are kept in pristine condition. Even the glass partition between the two areas is spotless.
One thing is obvious: Mila takes pride in her work.
The outer perimeter of the lab is framed by glass boards. A few of the names listed in various different colors catches my eye. As I get closer to the neat and tidy list of names and pictures, the bottom falls out of my stomach.
It's a list of all identified Markov victims, as well as dozens of more names like Mid-twenties Martha and Short Pete. Mila has given them temporary names. I understand the need for the descriptors, but the fact that she has humanized them breaks my heart.
She clearly thinks about her mother's crimes often. A flash of doubt presses against my conscience. Perhaps now that I know Mila is Markov's daughter, I should leave. Though her knowledge of her mother's thought process is impressive and would be a great asset, I don't want to put too much on Mila. She clearly does that all by herself.
She doesn't deserve to be made to feel like she has to stop her mother. She has definitely taken on enough.
"FUC gave me permission to keep working on some unsolved cases to see if they're connected to my mother." Mila comes to stand beside me. Seeing this extensive work makes me feel like a creep. Like somehow, I've crawled into her head to see all of the skeletons hiding there. "These are the eleven that I think she is responsible for. I haven't been able to identify them yet. It's not easy, going over all of the missing people reports and trying to identify each one. But..."
She cuts herself off. Mila doesn't have to go on. I understand what she isn't saying. This is her way of coping with what her mother did. By giving the families closure, she is hoping to obtain her own. A wave of uncomfortable sadness rises in the pit of my stomach.
I'm used to dealing with the bereaved families. Not with the guilty person's loved ones. It's new, and I don't know what to do with the sympathy I feel.
Clearing my throat, I look around the room, looking to distract myself. Mila is frantically pulling papers together and filling her bag.
"When did you start working for FUCNA?" I ask, gesturing toward the framed Ph.D. diploma that's leaning up against the wall as if no second thought had been given to it.
"Oh, that." She bites down on her lower lip, her white tooth digging into the deep red flesh. I don't know why, but the gesture makes my skin hot. I roll up the sleeves of my thermal shirt, trying to cool down.
"My dad insisted,” Mila answers, digging through a drawer. I can see the light tremor in her hands as she rushes around her workspace. “He had it framed, and he wanted me to put it up in my office. I just haven't gotten around to it in the last..." She pauses, scrunching her face in thought in the most adorable way. "Two years?"
"Is that a question?" I arch my eyebrow, punctuating my question.
"How long I've been here and why that isn't up yet aren’t as important as the work I do."
"Is that why you talk to the bones?"
Nice, T. You're teasing her like a creep. Not. The. Time.
"Well, it's only fair. They talk to me."
I feel the color drain from my face. "What?" For a few seconds, I start to doubt her sanity. Someone so hot would have a flaw.
"Not actually. I might look like the perfect candidate to be a female Hannibal Lecter down here, but let me assure you that the bones don't physically talk to me. They tell me their story merely by the state they're in."
Mila shoots me a wicked grin, and my heart stops for a whole different reason that time.
4
T-Bone
Mila walks back toward the map and points at the red circle, indicating a high concentration of missing people.
"We need to go to Willowbend first," she instructs again.
Quelling the various feelings warring in my head, I grab my phone and quickly send off a text to my superiors and the team leaders working under me to let them know we might have a possible lead.
"It's only about a three-hour drive from here," Mila goes on. "We can go now, but there's something you need to know about me before we head out on the road together." Mila takes a deep breath and releases it as she speaks, making the end of her words squeaky. "I'm a vampire bat. That means that I have a very severe allergy to the sun. We'll need to take one of the Academy's armored cars, which have insanely good tinted windows."
"You have an allergy to the sun." I repeat the words, letting my eyes roam over her body. That definitely explains the perfect creamy tone of her skin. She's never felt the pain of a sunburn or the joy of lying in the grass on a cool spring day. Seems like a shame.
"That's right. And I need to grab some food before we go. I doubt my dietary restrictions can be met where we're going, and I need to eat something specific once a day... or..." Mila looks away, her cheeks nearly matching her lipstick.
"Or?" I prompt.
"I get a bit sick." She says it quickly, avoiding my gaze.
I narrow my eyes, not quite understanding the undertones of her comment.
"Let's just get to the cafeteria. The sooner I eat, the quicker we can get out of here."
Mila rolls up the map and slides it into a cardboard cylinder, which she stuffs into a large messenger bag. I watch her move around the lab with agility and efficiency.
The energy in the elevator is electric. Clean stainless
