Emma Walker Autopsy Novels & Stories

Emma said. She hefted the hatchet. “I mean it!” Pushing a massive palm into the drift beside him, the wendigo pulled a felled tree from the drift. Scraping a splinter from the bark, it began to pick its teeth. The words came out in a dead man’s whisper, and even through the bitter cold that came with them, Emma could smell the rot. “Aah, little Emmie. I thought I heard someone knocking at my parlor door. Someone . . . ripe.”

My body was found in an abandoned building. The construction workers, struggling to hold back their nausea, called the police. My parents rushed from my sister Lily Lambert's celebration banquet to the crime scene. The crime scene investigator, Chester Ford, frowned and motioned for them to put on masks. My dad, David Lambert, was one of the top investigators the police brought in for special cases, and my mom, Stella Zimmer, was the leading forensic pathologist in Jasper City. Even though they had seen countless crime scenes, they still flinched when they saw my body.

“No scent of another wolf. No fear spike. She didn’t die scared.” I didn’t know whether that was comfort or another kind of horror. “We take her to Sarah,” I said. Medical staff lifted Alex onto the stretcher. Her limbs moved wrong and loose. Too heavy in some places, too soft in others. My wolf recoiled violently. I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. Sarah prepared the autopsy room with her usual clinical precision. Instruments glinted under sterile lights. Her expression was calm, almost too calm. The pack didn’t stay to watch. Only Lucas and I remained in the corner while Sarah opened Alex’s torso with steady hands.

dies with her, I thought, his slurs, my mother’s absence, Justin’s betrayal my fuel. I slipped into the clinic’s lot at dusk, hoodie blending with shadows, Derek beside me. Kayla’s rental SUV roared down Greenwich Avenue, Justin at the wheel, her silhouette beside him. My heart raced as the vehicle lurched, tires screeching, veering into a roadside oak. Metal crumpled, glass exploded, a thunderclap of chaos. Blood glinted on asphalt, Kayla’s scream piercing, Justin’s groans faint. “Brakes weren’t enough,” I muttered, eyes on the wreckage, crimson smears vivid in the frost. Derek smirked. “Device’ll finish it.” But a shadow moved across the lot—a figure, face hidden in the haze, clutching a g

Ethan Shaw is dead. His face has been destroyed and his limbs severed. When his body reaches the morgue, the person who performs the autopsy is his own wife, Dr. Vivian Sullivan. She is a cool, rational professor of forensic pathology, and she is the woman Ethan loved for more than a decade. Six years ago he lost his voice saving her life, and she married him because of it. In all the years that followed, she remembered every one of his follow-up appointments yet never once remembered his birthday. She tended his injuries, but gave every ounce of warmth and favor she had to his younger brother. Right up until the moment he died, Ethan was calling her, over and over. And she hung up on h

But my hands are covered in blood and the keypad flashes red every time I touch it. I wake up shaking. Emma’s already awake, knife in hand, crouched by the door. I whisper, “What is it?” She holds a finger to her lips and gestures toward the window. A red laser dot dances across the floor. My breath catches. Emma lunges, grabs me by the arm, and yanks me into the crawl space beneath the cabin floor. We squeeze in just as the first bullet shatters the kitchen window. Katherine starts to cry. “Shh, baby, shh,” I whisper, curling my body around hers.

I said and dropped that paper on the side and went to the next. It was another police report. This was about Damien's mother, Flora Dakota. The report mentioned she also died in an accident. The report stated that the autopsy revealed high volumes of gamma-aminobutyric acid. I frowned, wondering what that was. I grabbed my phone and googled it and realised it was a chemical that helps induce sleep. "Okay," I said. "I already know this, so why did Demitri give me this?" I asked and looked at the dates.

I will give him more than he bargains for. I go to my new home, a plain suburban affair. It is furnished. Quickly, not breaking a sweat, I move most of the furniture into the garage. Then I retire to the master bedroom, draw all the shades, and lie down on the hard wooden floor and close my eyes. The sun has drained my strength, I tell myself. But as I doze off I know it is also the people I have met this day that have cut deep into me, where my iron blood flows like a black river over the cold dust of forgotten ages, dripping onto this green world, onto the present, like the curse of the Lord himself. I hope to dream of Krishna as I fall asleep, but I do not. The devil is there instead. Yak

"She was found in her cell two nights ago. No signs of forced entry. No external wounds. The preliminary ruling was suicide." "Preliminary?" Marquez hesitated. Then he turned one of the autopsy photos toward her. “Yes and because of the strange occurrences surrounding her death, we were forced to perform and autopsy almost immediately” he continued as Emily's stomach lurched. She straightened herself on the chair and leaned in closer with disbelief.

Every time I stare at the cut in her lip, the rage thrums the more. When we arrive home, I carry her up to the stairs and lay her down on the bed. “I am going to make you soup.” I say and she nods, watching me with those amber eyes while half-asleep. Downstairs, as I prep the ingredients, I dial a call to Xavier. “Hey.” He picks up on the first ring. “Something up?” I cut straight to the point. “They took Emma today to an abandoned warehouse.”