The Numbered Corpses (Elysium #4)

Chapter Thirty-One

Once back home, Booker and Trinket checked on Daphne again. Her limbs were in working order, and though Trinket pleaded with her to continue resting in bed, the stubborn woman insisted on starting dinner.

"Three obstinate people all living under one roof," Trinket mumbled as they parted ways with Daphne and headed into the laboratory.

"It's a wonder we get anything done," Booker said with an amused smirk.

The dead woman was still on the operating table, her liver and stomach partially dissected on a workbench. The smell was only getting worse, and it seemed more of her skin had begun to flake off.

"So we have to sew her up?" Trinket asked, wrinkling her nose as she stationed herself at the woman's head.

Booker dug through drawers to retrieve needles and thread. "I think that would be best. Otherwise, the organs are likely to fall out when we move her."

Like the cat from her hallucination the other day. Sighing, she straightened her dress and took a deep breath. Booker returned to the table and offered her a needle, which she accepted somewhat reluctantly.

"You don't have to do it," he said as he moved towards the woman's lower half. "I can certainly stitch it up by myself if you'd like."

"No, I want to learn. I'm just still getting used to handling dead flesh."

A faint smile flashed across his face as he bent over the body and made his first stitch. "I'm lucky to have met a woman who shares my interests. Or at least tolerates them."

Trinket made a stitch at the woman's right shoulder. "Frieda didn't enjoy butchering cadavers?"

There was a long moment of silence. She glanced up at Booker and found his hand hovering over the stitches he'd made, his eyes unfocused. Sighing, he set down the needle and looked up at her, clearly troubled.

"I should explain about Frieda," he started.

"You already have."

"Right, I know I told you we had a relationship. But the nature of it—"

"Was purely carnal. I know. You told me about it before we even became romantically involved."

Still, there was pain and uncertainty marring his normally confident expression. "I feel like I need to apologize for it all."

Furrowing her brow, Trinket paused her needlework to meet his gaze. "Apologize? Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Because she and I . . . we . . . and now you and I are . . . I just . . ."

She'd never seen him quite so flustered. It was actually rather amusing. But certainly unnecessary. "Booker, it was before we knew each other. I don't resent you for your past. It has no bearing on our relationship."

A gentle smile replaced his anxious frown. "Thank you, Trinket."

She returned the smile and took up her needle.

After a moment, Booker paused his work once more and cleared his throat. "You know, I wouldn't resent your—"

Panic seized Trinket, and she quickly interrupted. "I do wonder how you two ended up together, though, considering how ridiculously uncomfortable you seem to be in her presence."

There was another long silence, and she feared he would try to inquire about her past again. Thankfully, he didn't press the matter. "At the time, I was young and lonely," he said. "I would've done anything to fill the void Benedict had left in my life. Frieda just happened to be the first one to offer her assistance."