her food in silence.
silence. What was his deal? She'd never before
met anyone so surly that they couldn't accept even
a minimal amount of kindness. He reminded her of
that awful Scott Murphy . . .
Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered the
boy who'd been in her children's home with her
when she was eleven. Hostile and feral, he'd
barely been human.
At nine years old, he'd been taken away from
his parents and then put into the revolving door
of foster homes because no one could do anything
with him. Finally, children's services had started
sending him to various facilities that were
equally quick to toss him out.
No one at the home where she'd stayed,
including the staff, could stand him. He was
always picking fights and mocking everyone, even
Simone who'd tried to be his friend. He'd laughed
at her, then bit her so hard, she'd needed
stitches—she still had the scar on her left
forearm. Because of that and other such tantrums
and attacks, he'd spent all of his time being
punished until he'd mysteriously vanished in the
middle of the night.
90
His body had been found a few days later in the
basement of the gym, still dressed in his pajamas.
Apparently he'd gone there, alone, and slit his
own wrists.
He'd only been eleven years old.
Simone had been sad enough over the horrible
occurrence, but when she'd overheard two of the
teachers talking later that day, that sadness had
turned to all-out grief for the child who
shouldn't have been reduced to ending his own
life.
"It's a shame that boy ended up like that, but
I guess given the trauma of his childhood, he
didn't have any hope."
"Trauma?"
"Didn't you know? He was taken away from his
parents because his mother was a crack addict and
his father a drug dealer. Scott had his skull
shattered one afternoon when he interrupted Daddy
doing a deal because the poor thing was starving
and dared to ask for a sandwich.
That's when the state took him away. His dad's
been trying to regain custody ever since. We'd
just told Scott the day he vanished that his
father was coming to take him home the next
morning. Guess the poor kid would rather be dead
than go back to whatever hell was waiting for him
. . ."
In that one moment, Simone had learned a
valuable life lesson. Judge no one until you know
their circumstances. No matter how awful they
seemed, sometimes there was a valid reason for
their behavior. Granted, some people were just
mean and corrupt, but not always.
Many people were just in pain, and by acting
out, they were only trying to protect themselves
from being hurt more.
91
It was what she tried to teach her students.
Anytime you entered a crime scene, the worst thing
you could do for the decedent was to pass judgment
on them. It clouded your professionalism and jaded
your work. A medical examiner's job was to report
without prejudice.
Personal views had no place in a morgue.
It was one thing to tell someone how to live
their life and what decisions to make. It was
another to be the person who had to do it and live
with the consequences. Just because you would do
something differently, it didn't mean they would.
People rose and fell by their own life choices and
experiences. The mistakes were theirs to make.
And as she thought about that, it made her
curious over Xypher and his past. Why was he so
defensive?
Who had hurt him?
"What are gods' childhoods like?"
Xypher looked up from his tabbouleh to meet a
pair of the clearest, most innocent eyes he'd ever
seen. "Excuse me?"
She didn't flinch at the causticity in his
tone. "I was just wondering. I mean, mine was very
typical until my family died. I rode my bike
through the neighborhood, made mud pies, had tea
parties with my friends and dolls, and fought with
my brother over TV shows. What did you do?"
Like he would tell her that? It was none of her
damned business. "What do you care?"
The friendliness on her face was washed away by
a
silence. What was his deal? She'd never before
met anyone so surly that they couldn't accept even
a minimal amount of kindness. He reminded her of
that awful Scott Murphy . . .
Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered the
boy who'd been in her children's home with her
when she was eleven. Hostile and feral, he'd
barely been human.
At nine years old, he'd been taken away from
his parents and then put into the revolving door
of foster homes because no one could do anything
with him. Finally, children's services had started
sending him to various facilities that were
equally quick to toss him out.
No one at the home where she'd stayed,
including the staff, could stand him. He was
always picking fights and mocking everyone, even
Simone who'd tried to be his friend. He'd laughed
at her, then bit her so hard, she'd needed
stitches—she still had the scar on her left
forearm. Because of that and other such tantrums
and attacks, he'd spent all of his time being
punished until he'd mysteriously vanished in the
middle of the night.
90
His body had been found a few days later in the
basement of the gym, still dressed in his pajamas.
Apparently he'd gone there, alone, and slit his
own wrists.
He'd only been eleven years old.
Simone had been sad enough over the horrible
occurrence, but when she'd overheard two of the
teachers talking later that day, that sadness had
turned to all-out grief for the child who
shouldn't have been reduced to ending his own
life.
"It's a shame that boy ended up like that, but
I guess given the trauma of his childhood, he
didn't have any hope."
"Trauma?"
"Didn't you know? He was taken away from his
parents because his mother was a crack addict and
his father a drug dealer. Scott had his skull
shattered one afternoon when he interrupted Daddy
doing a deal because the poor thing was starving
and dared to ask for a sandwich.
That's when the state took him away. His dad's
been trying to regain custody ever since. We'd
just told Scott the day he vanished that his
father was coming to take him home the next
morning. Guess the poor kid would rather be dead
than go back to whatever hell was waiting for him
. . ."
In that one moment, Simone had learned a
valuable life lesson. Judge no one until you know
their circumstances. No matter how awful they
seemed, sometimes there was a valid reason for
their behavior. Granted, some people were just
mean and corrupt, but not always.
Many people were just in pain, and by acting
out, they were only trying to protect themselves
from being hurt more.
91
It was what she tried to teach her students.
Anytime you entered a crime scene, the worst thing
you could do for the decedent was to pass judgment
on them. It clouded your professionalism and jaded
your work. A medical examiner's job was to report
without prejudice.
Personal views had no place in a morgue.
It was one thing to tell someone how to live
their life and what decisions to make. It was
another to be the person who had to do it and live
with the consequences. Just because you would do
something differently, it didn't mean they would.
People rose and fell by their own life choices and
experiences. The mistakes were theirs to make.
And as she thought about that, it made her
curious over Xypher and his past. Why was he so
defensive?
Who had hurt him?
"What are gods' childhoods like?"
Xypher looked up from his tabbouleh to meet a
pair of the clearest, most innocent eyes he'd ever
seen. "Excuse me?"
She didn't flinch at the causticity in his
tone. "I was just wondering. I mean, mine was very
typical until my family died. I rode my bike
through the neighborhood, made mud pies, had tea
parties with my friends and dolls, and fought with
my brother over TV shows. What did you do?"
Like he would tell her that? It was none of her
damned business. "What do you care?"
The friendliness on her face was washed away by
a
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