The morgue beneath the hospital was never truly quiet. The lights hummed, the vents breathed cold air, and the wheels of carts whispered over polished tile. Dr. Vincent Harper had worked there long enough to hear every sound separately.
Kristina had not. She was only three weeks into her forensic rotation, still learning how to keep her hands steady when a file described someone’s whole life in two clipped paragraphs and a time of death.
That morning, the file was worse than most. Two twin girls had collapsed before sunrise, been rushed to the pediatric wing, and pronounced dead within minutes of each other. Their transfer paperwork reached the county medical examiner’s office at 8:13 a.m.
The police report was already open. A pale pink liquid had been found in a small medicine cup near their beds. No one in the emergency department wanted to say poisoning aloud, but everyone had written around it.
Vincent read the hospital intake form twice. Same bedroom. Same symptoms. Same final hour. In his line of work, coincidence was not impossible, but it had to earn the right to be believed.
Kristina stood beside the first table, trying not to stare too long at their faces. The girls looked peaceful in a way that made the room feel cruel. Their cheeks still held the softness of childhood.
