I switch the phone from my right ear to my left and dig the sticky note out of my bag to double check the address.

“No,” I sigh. “I didn’t call to re-hash it. I called to apologize.”

“Then just apologize,” he says. I hear running water in the background. My dashboard clock reads seven forty, which means, like clockwork, Christian is standing in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I picture him, toothbrush in hand, toothpaste applied, waiting for me to get off the phone.

“I just want you to understand why I was upset,” I say, keeping my voice even. I nearly miss my turn and crank the wheel hard with only my right hand, my wrist whining as I just make the corner.

“Is your apology contingent on my understanding?” he asks, the water still running. “Because that doesn’t sound like much of an apology to me.”

I feel like I’m in court with Christian, being cross-examined. As usual.

I spot the apartment building ahead. I don’t even have to look at the address—the police cruisers and the van marked “Medical Examiner” give it away.

“You’re right,” I say, pulling my car to the curb. “I’m sorry. That’s all I wanted to say. I’m sorry.”

There is a pause and what should happen is Christian should say he’s sorry, too. But instead, he says, “Okay, I gotta go. See you tonight.” And then he hangs up.

I sit behind the wheel without moving. Five years together. Five years and Christian has never done what he should. For a long time it was part of his charm—the spontaneous singing on the streets, the cooking adventures, and our wildly diverse friends. A lot has changed in five years. Five years of watching his unconventional tactics that, ultimately, helped him make partner at his law firm. The youngest ever. But also five years of being talked over. Five years of him mocking my “dead-end” job. Five years of always being the first to apologize. Five years of watching our friend group evolve from diversity into uniformity. Into people just like Christian and his partners.

Five years of Taco Tuesdays.

Last night’s conversation surges back through my mind.

Did you pick up the taco shells?

We’ve got chips. I can make nachos.

But it’s Taco Tuesday, Bri. Not Nacho Tuesday.

So go to the store, Christian.

I worked all day. I’m tired.

I close my eyes and try to stop the usual rush of thoughts that go through my head after arguments like this, picturing Christian, finally able to brush his teeth so he can get to his important job. I hope he gets toothpaste on his Burberry dress shirt.

A tap on my passenger window startles me. I grab my leather notebook off the seat, my black duffel bag off the passenger floorboard, and climb out of my car, smiling at the officer, leaving thoughts of Christian and failed Taco Tuesday in the car where they belong. I have a job to do, too.

“Sorry.” I cringe at the word. “I’m Brianna, the death scene investigator.”

“Officer Torres,” he says.

And that’s when I notice that all of them—two other police officers and my transport van driver, Gordy—are standing outside. I’m not sure this is how I want to continue my morning.

“Have you been in yet?” I ask Gordy, who is leaning against the side of his van, playing on his cell phone.

He shakes his head. “They said it was bad.”

I look between the officers and then back to the brownstone building. I’ve seen police officers dry heave at something that smells like a baby’s soiled diaper, so I don’t trust it.

“It’s bad,” Officer Torres confirms when my eyes fall on him.

The front door of the apartment building is propped open with a cigarette stand. From the windows on either side, I see curious neighbors peeking from behind shades.

“Well, walk me through it,” I say with a sigh.

Officer Torres pulls out his notepad.

It’s a familiar story. The man had missed three days of work. No answer when called. Kept to himself so neighbors couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen him. The mail in the box was a week old. There was a smell coming from under the door. The police performed a welfare check and found him.

I adjust the strap of my duffel bag and motion for Officer Torres to lead the way. We enter the brownstone, which is old but not in complete disrepair—the carpet leading down the half-steps to the basement level is dingy but vacuumed recently and the walls don’t look too scuffed. We stop at the door at the end of the hall.

“There’s a sister in town. We sent an officer to talk to her. It’s unlocked,” Officer Torres says.

When I open the door, he steps back.

The apartment is dark, lit only by a florescent light in the kitchen. I sniff the air and walk to the large sliding glass door that leads out to the garden level courtyard in the rear of the building. I slide the door open a crack and feel a rush of cool air.

The apartment smells. But I’ve smelled worse.

I turn and shout to Officer Torres.

“Did you find an ID?”

“There was a wallet on the kitchen counter,” his muffled reply comes from safe in the hallway, nearly drowned out by the clank of the stretcher as Gordy bangs it down the stairs.

I flip on a lamp next to the couch and look toward the hallway, where I see two stocking feet on the floor, bare legs leading into the darkness. The man is face down in only his underwear and socks, one arm tucked awkwardly underneath him and another arm stiff over his head. From the black desiccation on his fingertips I’m guessing he died sometime after he checked his mail a week ago. Which means it’s going to smell a lot worse in here once we roll him.

In the hallway, I hear Gordy and Officer Torres talking about the Vikings game.

He’ll have to be identified by something other than his face, I’m guessing, so I start my search in the kitchen. The wallet is stuffed with receipts, some small bills, and punch cards from local coffee and sandwich shops. Much like mine, and most others I’ve seen, his drivers’ license photo looks like a mug shot.

Derek David Donahue.

I toss the wallet back on the counter and pull open the top cabinet drawer, finding piles of bill stubs, receipts, loose keys, chopsticks still in their paper wrappers and extra hot salsa packets from Taco Bell.

As if I was trying to sabotage Taco Tuesday. As if it was even about Taco Tuesday. I may not contribute the big paycheck Christian does, but I work hard, too. It’s as if only Christian is allowed to be too tired to go to the store. I try to remember a time when I felt equal to Christian.

Before he made partner.

With a sigh, I close the drawer. The kitchen is a dead end. On to the bedroom.

I go through the dead man’s life, room by room. There is a prescription bottle in the bathroom. In the bedroom, I find a folder of receipts from his medical clinic. Notices of pending stress tests for his heart. He reported symptoms of shortness of breath, chest pain, and intense heartburn. No foul play here.

“Gordy,” I call out into the hall. “Bring in the cot and the bag. Time to roll him.”

After we load the cot into the transport van, I return to the apartment to gather my bag and paperwork. Just as I’m hoisting my duffel bag onto my shoulder, my cell phone trills. Mom, the screen reads. I plop down on the end of the couch, figuring the place could stand to air out a little more before we lock it up.

“Hey, Mom.”

I barely have the words out and she’s charging forward.

“Did you kiss and make up?” she chirps. Being an only child to a single mother, there isn’t much we keep from each other. I’d sent her a text last night after Christian stormed off to the store for taco shells. I forgot to update her when I got to work this morning.

“I guess.”

“Oh, Bri. Are tacos really worth fighting over?”

Of all people, I would expect my mom to understand that fights with significant others are not always what they appear to be about on the surface. I’m positive her and Dad fought about dumber things.

But Mom worked two jobs when I was growing up just to make the rent. Sure, she likes Christian, but I know the real reason she wants things to work out between us; she doesn’t want me to end up alone and broke like her.

“Mom, it’s not about the tacos. It’s about him thinking that just because he makes more money than me . . .”

“Bri,” she interrupts. “He does work hard.”

“I work, too. I’m working now,” I say without irony, lounged on a dead man’s couch.

But she doesn’t hear me.

“You can’t fight about these things. Hold onto that relationship. You’ve invested so much time in each other.”

She’s still talking but I’m distracted by a scraping sound. I look up. In the open doorway, Officer Torres stands, looking into the room.

“Being alone is no cake walk, either,” Mom is saying. “You know I want you to be happy. You know I just want the best for you. Let me tell you, when your dad left me . . .”

The scraping sound continues, louder this time, and definitely not coming from where Officer Torres stands.

“Mom.” I see Officer Torres put his hand on his holster. “I have to let you go.”

I hang up and look around the room. All is quiet except for the sound of a couple arguing out in the courtyard. On the end table next to where I’m sitting there is a framed photo. In it, Derek David Donahue sits on the same couch I sit on now, his arm around a woman who looks like she might be his mother. He has a huge grin on his kind face and a large black cat draped on his lap.

I hold the picture up to Officer Torres, hearing more noises coming from the bedroom.

“Will you radio Animal Control, please? And let’s get these doors shut before we have an escape.”

* * *

The next day I shuffle the papers in the Donahue case file and organize it on my desk along with printouts of the blood work and the x-rays of his teeth we’ll use for official identification. His face, along with being too severely decomposed for visual identification, was riddled with little bite marks. If I’d seen those at the scene we would have known to look for the cat right away.

The poor thing’s food was locked up in a closet in the hall, which I only found after Animal Control showed up. With no food around for over a week, his last meals were his owner’s face.

No more awkward than me and Christian’s meal last night. Leftover tacos.

My coworker Anderson slides his rolling chair over to me.

“Wanna grab some lunch?” he asks. “Falafel?”

“No thanks. I packed a sandwich.”

On the counter, my phone buzzes and a text from Mom pops up.

Why don’t you and Christian take my orchestra tickets for Thursday?

Anderson reads the text without even being subtle. My on call partner for the past seven years and fifteen years my senior, he’s more like a dorky dad figure than a partner. Between death calls, we talk. I was there for his son’s high school graduation, his father’s death, and his second divorce. He’s been with me through Christian’s promotions and demands.

“Uh oh,” Anderson says with a laugh. “Is that an innocent invite or is your mom trying to fix something?”

I roll my eyes.

“Bri,” Anderson says, spinning my chair to face him. “Your mother and I are worried.”

I slap at him with the file.

“She’s right about one thing, you know,” he says, a seriousness entering his voice. “This isn’t exactly the kind of profession where you get to meet people. Our schedule sucks. Nights, weekends, holidays. Christian has put in the time. You gotta give him that, if nothing else.”

I smile. “Is that all relationships are? Devotion to time spent?”

“Well, that and, I don’t know? Love of tacos?” Anderson guesses.

“Sure,” I say with a sigh.

“Well, I’m grabbing falafel. Text me if you change your mind.” Anderson stands up and heads to the door but stops. “From one friend to another, Bri, you can’t live your life by your mom’s rules. You know what you want, but forgive her for not wanting you to end up a crazy cat lady.”

My eyes grow wide, thinking of the howls of Derek David Donahue’s black cat as Animal Control wrestled him into the crate.

“Thanks for the reminder. I need to call this sister,” I say, waving the file at Anderson’s retreating back.

Bonita answers on the third ring. She sounds winded.

“My name is Bri. I’m the death investigator who was assigned to your brother’s case.”

“Thank you for the call,” she says, sniffing. In the background I hear the television and children shouting.

“I’m certain your brother’s death was a shock. I just wanted you to know that he was suffering from a heart condition. It will be three or four weeks before the lab results are final. But I can tell you it was likely his heart.”

Bonita sighs. “Our dad died of a heart attack when we were young. I guess this just makes sense. No matter how well he took care of himself. We all have our time, don’t we?”

On the counter in front of my computer, my phone buzzes and a text from Christian pops up on the screen.

Working late tonight.

“We’ll be able to release the keys to the apartment to you,” I say, distracted. “Now that homicide has been ruled out. Did you speak with Officer Torres?”

Another buzz. Can you make dinner or is that too much to ask?

“Yes, he called,” Bonita says.

“I have to warn you,” I begin. There’s just never a good way to handle this subject. “Due to the amount of time your brother was there, post mortem, there’s an odor in the apartment. And some stains on the floor.”

Why would you ask like that? I punch back.

Bonita is silent.

“I can give you some numbers of biohazard clean-up groups for you to call,” I say, my voice mechanical.

She swallows hard. “That would be good.”

I stare at the little ellipses on my screen.

“Oh,” Bonita says. “Officer Torres mentioned Mortie, too.”

His reply appears on my screen. Well, you were too damn tired the other night. I’m just checking.

“Who? Oh, the cat.”

I put the phone face down on the counter, a little too hard. My hand needs something to do now, so I fidget with the x-rays of Derek David Donahue’s teeth.

“God, Derek loved that thing.” There is a catch in her voice. “Derek got him when he was just a little kitten and that was thirteen years ago. Everyone in our family is allergic, even Derek, but he wanted the company at home and the landlord wouldn’t let him get a dog.”

Bonita laughs and when she continues she has that far away sound in her voice.

“Derek practically bought stock in Benedryl after he got him, but that thing never left his side and Derek just loved it.”

“I can call Animal Control and let them know you’ll be picking him up.”

“I mean, that’s the thing,” Bonita continues as I hear my phone buzz, fighting the urge to turn it over. “Mortie is so old.”

I’m staring at my cell phone, but I don’t let myself touch it.

“I’m allergic. My boys might be allergic.”

She’s hedging.

I’m silent. She is silent. I can hear the TV and children’s laughter in the background.

“I guess what I’m asking is what happens to Mortie if I can’t take him?” Bonita says in a rush of air and guilt.

“If there’s room at the shelter he’ll be put up for adoption,” I say.

“And if there isn’t room?”

“He’ll be put down,” I say a little too coolly.

My phone buzzes. I just want this conversation to be over.

“Oh. Is that . . . ? Does that happen often?”

It occurs to me that I’m not sure what she’s asking. I hesitate. This isn’t a professional matter, so I really should just tell her what she wants to hear.

“It’s hard to say,” I begin. She just wants permission to do what she wants to do. She wants to be told that it’s okay for Mortie, the love of her brother’s life, to be put down. For some reason I can’t say it.

She lowers her voice.

“Officer Torres said Mortie didn’t have anything to eat. I heard that they’ll eat . . . faces. I just, I just can’t handle the thought of having Mortie in my home if he . . . you know. He’s old. And with Derek gone now . . .”

I tap my cell phone, my mind back in the apartment. The hissing and the spitting as we cornered him in the bedroom. I’m thinking of the cat. Of Mortie, his little black face crusted with dried blood. The little fuzzy face Derek once loved, even as his eyes itched and his nose ran.

“Was your brother ever married?” I find myself asking.

“No,” Bonita says, her voice back at normal level. “When he was younger he traveled a lot. It was only after my Charlie was born that Derek got the place here in town. That’s how I know how old Mortie is. He got him a week after Charlie came home from the hospital. Derek was such a great uncle. He had a lot of love in his life. But no wife. Why do you ask?” Bonita says, and this time I hear a sob start to rise in her throat.

“No reason,” I say, reaching for the rolodex on my desk and turning it to the As. “About Mortie. I think you need to do what’s best for you. And your family. I can call Animal Control on your behalf and let them know to put the cat in general population. Is that what you’d like me to do?”

“That would be nice,” she says, relieved.

A relief that I have given her permission to have.

I hang up and stare at the back of my phone.

The door bangs open as Anderson enters with a greasy brown bag. I close the Donahue file and put it in the rack labeled “Pending Autopsy Results.” The case is closed.

Ignored, my phone begins a persistent buzz. I flip it over and see it’s Christian calling, upset I haven’t answered his texts. But I’m thinking of Bonita, happy with her decision because I gave her permission to be happy about it.

“You’re missing out,” Anderson says from his desk, shoving two inches of pita into his mouth.

I’m wondering if that’s all it takes. Permission.

“You’re right,” I say, picking up the phone and dialing Animal Control. “I am missing out.”

Anderson chews his falafel thoughtfully.

“Hey, Hank,” I say into the phone. “I’m calling about that cat brought in from the decomp case yesterday. The black one. His name is Mortie. I was wondering about coming down and getting him after I got off work.”

Anderson cocks his head at me as I’m put on hold.

“I’ve always wanted a cat,” I say.

“Did Christian say you could get one?”

“No,” I say. “I said I could.”