Jane Doe on the Table

The morgue lights caught the stainless-steel scalpel in my mother's hand. She checked its edge twice and adjusted her grip with the precision that had won her awards. She had always been more careful with her instruments than with me. "A total mess." She looked at the wall clock. "This will take all night. Chloe's engagement party starts in an hour, and I'm stuck here with this." *This.* The tag tied to my toe said Jane Doe. That was enough for her. I hovered near the ceiling and watched Dr. Evelyn Croft hand her designer blazer to her assistant, Sarah. Crisp sterile scrubs waited underneath. She studied my ruined face only long enough to decide the case would make her late, then checked the clock again. They were discussing Chloe's party beside my body. I would have laughed at the phrasing once. Police Chief Arthur Croft paced by the door in a rumpled, expensive suit. His eyes moved between his phone and the clock. He never once looked toward the table; even when I was alive, he avoided anything he considered damaged beyond repair. He slapped at his pockets. "Where the hell is it? Aria! Did you move my medication memo again?" My name sounded wrong in the refrigerated room. For fifteen years, ever since they brought me from the slums to their perfect mansion, I had kept track of his pills, appointments, and daily schedule. He relied on me often enough to call my name without thinking, though he never admitted needing me. He caught himself and shut his mouth. When he spoke again, the familiar contempt had returned. "Forget it. She's probably hiding in some cheap motel, enjoying the drama. Issue a warrant. Trespassing, public nuisance, I don't care. This childish stunt ends tonight. She will not ruin her sister's big day." They had a Jane Doe on the table and still found a way to make Aria Croft the criminal. I tried to laugh. Nothing came out. They still thought I was hiding from them while my blood dried on the sheet below. Sarah had gone pale. She kept looking at what remained of my face. "She's so young, Dr. Croft. Barely a woman." My mother snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "Youth doesn't excuse poor choices, Sarah. This one clearly ran with the wrong crowd. A lowlife. Hand me the forceps." She had used the same verdict on me for years, usually before hearing what happened. My award-winning mother leaned over the table with the same clinical care she used in public demonstrations. The scalpel touched the cold skin above my sternum. I had spent most of my life waiting for praise from the hand holding it. The blade went in with a soft, wet sound. She opened my chest to find a cause of death. Her own name would never appear on that line of the report. This time, I did laugh, though no one heard it. Let her keep cutting. The men who killed me had forced one last object down my throat, and it was still in my stomach. I wanted to see whether her hands would stay steady when she found it.