27Drip. Drip. Drip. Water trickled from a crack in the morgue ceiling, spattering onto the metal carts. Maxwell Bourgeois led Ava to the staircase. She could smell the Pierre Lazard cologne seeping through his pores. They stood so close that his wispy blond hairs rubbed up against her cheek.
He stared at Ava as if she were a Weimaraner trying out for Best in Show. Swiftly, he tore the doctor’s coat off her shoulders to reveal the black dress underneath.
“All dolled up, are we?” he asked. “You’re not an intern, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then what? A cancer patient whose dying wish is to visit the morgue? An anorexic visiting a dead friend?”
“I have s*x with the bodies,” Ava said without an ounce of sarcasm. Her big eyes stared straight up at Bourgeois’s.
“Pretty and funny. How tall ar
