She didn’t recognize her own body, rigid in death. The fire red teddy, crumpled on the floor, had been ripped from her cold alabaster skin exposed for the scalpel to cut. On the sterile metal table, her blood dried in a trail down the legs to the drain on the floor.The last remnants of her life.
Cinnamon watched from the upper corner of the room, feeling raped and defiled by the men spreading her lifeless body before the angel of death himself.
Confusion, loneliness, and fear were not emotions Cinnamon Murphy was accustomed to feeling. And yet, there she was, dead on a slab in the mortuary, awaiting the scalpel with emotions she’d never experienced in life, and wondered why she was hanging around instead of going after that big bright tunnel in the sky. Moments ago, if asked, she’d have said being a hotshot detective should have been a first class, express train to Paradise. Let alone getting the Hellions off the street before they could cause damage, protecting the innocent, righting the wrongs, putting the depraved behind bars.
But if the men in tacky Hawaiian shirts—sans lab coats—with the roaming hands gave any indication, she had more work to do, and unfortunately, she was dead. Unable to grill the bad guys and stuck in hellhole limbo, she watched somebody’s grunts touch her body. Tugs and pulls, pinches and rough fondling gradually muted as if she were numb, under anesthesia, but with an edge of awareness seeping in. The air changed, shifted, when another man stepped into the room.
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