3
She sorts through her instruments methodically, meticulously; rearranges the order, counts the metal tools that feel like ice beneath her fingertips, twice, then a third time. She knows she's stalling but she clings to the moment, loses herself in her familiar patterns, the facts and figures that make some sort of sense in the senseless environment within which she operates. Just one more moment where she can pretend that all is right in the world and her best friend won't lie dead in front of her when she turns around.
It's entirely against protocol, her being here. She gives a finger to the rules, would happily kick protocol's ass into tomorrow. Sticking to the rules is what gets you here, with this extraordinary person murdered, victim to some psychopath couple and their dastardly games.
Several of her colleagues suggested they step in for her, Perlmutter all but ordered her from the case but she'd barked at everyone who'd tried, straightened her spine and stood her ground, eyes throwing daggers until they'd backed the hell off. She knows they won't rat her out; in the end they're a united front, backing her up. No one will know.
And she'd be damned before she'd let anybody else near her girl.
Lanie blows out a deep breath, and another, blinks her eyes so the tears chase down her cheeks, clearing her vision. And then she reaches for the pair of scissors placed at the outer-left edge of her instrument panel, and turns for the table.
She freezes at the sight; she knew what to expect yet the reality is still a sucker-punch to the gut, its impact only heightened by the sight of her vivacious, beautiful friend lying so unnaturally still. Her fingers shake, her throat clogged with the wail that's tearing through her but she's forcing it down, not just for herself but for Castle who's sitting just outside, counting on her to be strong. And for Kate. She needs her now.
Lanie closes her eyes; one second, two, and when she opens them again, she steps up to the table.
"Hey, honey," she whispers, running her thumb across her forehead, the blue of her glove shocking against the once-perfect skin of her friend.
And then she gets to work.
She cuts methodically, the scissors crunching through the rough fabric as she works up the pant leg of the jeans, through the waistband and the strip of lace underwear, up through the wool sweater, the bra, the turtleneck; folds open the remnants of clothing, tugging the pieces from below the body, stuffs each into a separate evidence bag. Squaring up at the foot of the slab, she begins her examination from the bottom up, eyeing the lithe, pale limbs, manipulating each carefully to note bruises, discolorations, scars, across the stomach and ribcage and—
Oh dear god.
She stands back from the hectic bustle that's overtaken her morgue, catches herself for at least the third time trying to bite her nails before she realizes she's still wearing gloves.
Her heart won't stop thumping in her throat. She doesn't think she's ever felt as helpless in her life as in this moment, standing back with the sharp edge of a cabinet cutting into her booty and nothing to do but wait, wait, wait.
Oh god. She should've- How didn't she think of it right away? But no. No. She needs to be sure. They all do. Unfailingly certain.
The senior M.E. she'd called in for assistance finishes every required step with calm certainty if not speed, his team an incongruous flutter of activity around him. It's driving her crazy, makes her simultaneously want to claw at the walls, scream at him to hurry, and beg him for mercy.
She feels that unmistakable flutter of hope in her chest, cutting through the layer of grief no matter how hard she tries to quell it; she won't, can't allow the hope to bloom because it seems too unreal; impossible odds. She might've been wrong, her judgment clouded by despair or wishful thinking, too many variables-
"Dr. Parrish?"
The metal swing doors are no match for her as she pushes through, its wings crashing against the walls, shattering the oppressive silence in the corridor.
Pure shock seems to jerk him up from his seat; he's swaying as he stands, his eyes flying open, and Lanie startles at how he seems to have aged ten years and lost twenty pounds in just the last few hours, his cheeks drooping, his eye sockets hollow and tinged blue.
"S' not her."
He just stares at her, doesn't seem to comprehend. She can't blame him.
"It isn't Kate." She points behind her, imploring him with the truth, the crazy, unbelievable, staggering, amazing truth.
"Castle, this is not Kate."
