“That is fun. You’re not a reader? Fun doesn’t have to be physical.”

His eyes crinkled as his grin grew, and she winced at her words.

“That was funny.”

Victoria’s cheeks heated, but she kept her chin up. Seth continued to grin, and she felt her stomach do a quick series of flips.

“I guess I feel like I read so much for school, the last thing I want to do is read some more,” he said. “Usually I’m dying to get out the door and get moving. Apparently that isn’t a problem for you?”

She shook her head. “I take a yoga class twice a week, but I can’t say I go there with energy to burn.”

“I’d ask if you need any extra help in class, but it’s pretty apparent that you don’t. You could probably do my job.”

She studied his face and mentally dissected his last sentence. Why would he ask if she needed help in class? Because… “Are you asking me out?” she blurted.

“Yes,” he said calmly.

“Isn’t that against some sort of rule?”

“Only if I’m a professor.” He frowned lightly. “Or are you uncomfortable with the idea of going out with a teaching assistant? I’m not going to screw with your grades or help you out. You don’t need help anyway. I don’t know why you’ve asked me the questions you have during office hours. It was pretty clear that you knew the material inside and out.”

Victoria held her breath. And held his gaze.

“You’re smart, you’re gorgeous, you’re going places. Why wouldn’t I ask you out?”

He thought she was gorgeous? “How many other students from your classes have you asked out?” The question slipped through her lips. It was a bit rude, but she wanted to know. She wasn’t falling for the teacher-boinking-the-student scenario.

“None.”

“None? Really?”

She must have looked doubtful. He straightened in his chair and repeated firmly, “None. I dated someone back home for a couple of years. We ended it a while ago. I haven’t dated anyone else since I’ve been here at school.” His gaze touched her lips, then cheeks and went back to her eyes. “You’ve been stuck in my head for weeks. I think it started one of the rainy nights I was passing by here. You were studying at this same table, scowling at the text like you were furious with it, and chewing on your lower lip. Did you know you do that in class too? Mainly during tests but sometimes during the lectures. Anyway, I was passing by, considering grabbing a coffee for the cold walk home, and I recognized you from class. Since then…” He shook his head, that half smile curling up his right cheek. “Yeah, you stuck in my head.”

Victoria stared. If he’d said he was a time traveler, she wouldn’t have been more surprised.

In shock, she agreed to a date.

“What’s a psychological autopsy?” Mason asked as he avoided looking at the young girl on the metal table.

The medical examiner had just mentioned the possible need for an unfamiliar type of autopsy. Dr. Campbell stood back as he watched his assistant stitch together the gaping chest incision that the examiner had created an hour before.

“It’s an investigation to discover the state of mind of these girls before their death. Right now I can’t even classify these deaths. They could be accidental, suicide, or homicide. I know the results of the tox screen will indicate what stopped their hearts and respiration, but it’s not going to tell us how it got in their system. Did someone else put it there, or did they take it willingly?”

Mason was familiar with the NASH classification for deaths. Natural, accidental, suicide, or homicide. Natural was easy to rule out in this case, but the ME had a good point. They needed more information. As soon as these girls were identified, they’d have a place to start. Dr. Campbell had efficiently sped through the first girl’s autopsy, from the Y incision, to the tissue samples, to peeling back the scalp to remove part of her skull and examine the brain. When the doctor had moved down the table to take a vaginal swab, anger had burned through Mason. The girl was almost a child, defenseless on the metal table. He offered up a prayer that her soul had left the room and wouldn’t witness the indignities her body would suffer. Mason had stared at the light fixture and films through most of the procedure.

Autopsies were impersonal, the essence of the victims departed, but it took a lot of effort for Mason to be present for many of his cases. The autopsy suite was one of his least favorite places in the world. He’d hoped that over the years he would have grown accustomed to the sights and smells; he still waited. Each autopsy rattled him and visually stuck with him. He saw his role in the autopsy suite as honoring the victim. He’d stand at attention, respecting the science that would help bring justice. He was an honor guard starting his work for the victim. Often the victims were alone at their moment of death; they didn’t need to be alone for this final affront.

“Who does the psychological autopsy?” he asked.

“I have a couple of psychologists who I’ve worked with in the past. Usually it’s the type of situation where information is needed to settle estate issues or insurance cases. They do in-depth interviews with family, friends, and witnesses. They’ll look through social media and emails if they can. Even look at the victim’s preference in books and television shows. They have a list of suicide indicators they look for.”

Doctor Campbell’s definition sounded a lot like Mason and Ray’s job. He raised an eyebrow at the doctor.