Innocent Until Found Dead

Prologue

"The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is the duty of the living to do so for them" —Lois McMaster

The first time Quinn Beverly saw her parents' pale, disfigured faces on the autopsy tables, a sound escaped her lips—a sound that should never belong in a room like this. It wasn't a scream, a gasp, or a sob. It was laughter, brittle and jagged, echoing off the sterile white tiles of the morgue. It tore through the silence like a cracked mirror, shattering the stillness and ricocheting back at her until it felt as though the walls themselves were laughing in twisted mockery.

The laughter bubbled out of Quinn uncontrollably, each burst tearing at her throat, making her chest burn. It wasn't because anything was funny—it was because everything was so horribly, utterly wrong. Her parents lay before her, lifeless, their faces pale and swollen, bruised with death. The bullet wounds were grotesque, a dark finality marking their foreheads, and Quinn felt the laughter rising like bile–as if it was the only way her body could protect itself from splintering into a thousand pieces. Her parents, the people who had loved her, cared for her, who had always been there—now reduced to these empty shells. The sight was unbearable.

Her insides twisted–like something dark was clawing at her ribcage, trying to escape. Quinn had thought she would cry—she had wanted to cry, to mourn like a normal girl would. But instead, here she was, laughter bursting from her in staccato gasps, cracking through the cold, antiseptic air. It was the dam holding back a flood of grief, the only thing preventing her from drowning in the unbearable reality laid out before her.

The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting a ghostly sheen over the metal tables, and the harsh, clinical smell of formaldehyde stung her nostrils. Quinn's vision blurred as her laughter turned into a rasp, the last desperate effort of a body overwhelmed by pain. Her knees wobbled, and she had to reach out, her fingers brushing against the cold, steel edge of the autopsy table to steady herself. The chill shot through her arm, grounding her, anchoring her to this nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

"Sam and Sarah Beverly were found dead, floating face down in Lake Santeetlah at approximately 3:24 p.m. by Santeetlah's harbor patrol near Cheoa Point," the pathologist read aloud, his voice steady over Quinn's laughter. "The bodies had been in the water for an estimated time of forty-eight hours. Both victims sustained a single gunshot wound to the head. The bullets were found lodged between the cerebral cortex and the parietal lobe. Analysis indicates they came from a .36-caliber Colt Paterson Percussion Revolver—one of the rarest revolvers in existence. The same weapon was used for both victims, and the shots were fired within the same minute. No weapon was recovered at the scene. Time of death is estimated to be April 21, 2022." The pathologist read through the whole report without stopping, raising his voice over Quinn's laughter.

Quinn paused her laughter, momentarily startled by the pathologist's calm tone. He wasn't looking at her as though she were unhinged. Not like her aunt Laura, who stood beside him, her eyes swollen and exhausted. Laura had lived with Quinn's parents for a while, but they hadn't been close. Not like her and Quinn. Laura and Quinn had cherished their time together when Sam and Sarah went on their anniversary trip, but now Laura looked aged, as if the grief had carved lines into her face overnight.

"Have the police found any suspects?" Laura's voice was rough and shaky. She reached out, gently pulling Quinn away from the tables. Quinn let out a small sob but didn't resist, feeling Laura's arms wrap around her. Laura's embrace was the only thing anchoring her, and she trembled as she leaned into it.

"Quinn, do you want to wait in the car?"

"No," Quinn said, shaking her head. Her eyes were weak, and her voice was trembling but determined. "I need to know what happened to them. I want to know who did this."