Prometheus went to the morgue by himself, to see if he could identify the body.
“It’s her,” he said, looking at the birthmark on Katie’s arm. He remembered that from when she was a kid.
The smell of the room was terrible, but Prometheus still lingered for a second. Even if Katie’s dead body was just a shell, he figured he needed a moment to remember what was left of her.
He took a deep breath, and that was that.
He left the morgue.
Drove around for a little while, letting his mind wander on all the good times they’d had together. He called Sharise real quick, told her he probably wouldn’t be in the office for the rest of the day, and that in fact he didn’t plan on being there for the rest of the week.
Eventually he parked his car and went to the beach. There were a lot of people there, but that didn’t matter. He ignored them.
His bare feet touched the hot sand. That didn’t matter, either.
He looked out on the ocean waves, seeing how they rolled in, and how they rolled out again.
There were many ways to grieve, he knew, but this was his favorite: remembering the person in a place that relaxed you.
You couldn’t remember the whole person, of course. A person was too complex to remember in their totality. But you could remember pieces of them, details about them. Put together a puzzle of their life and then give that life a narrative.
He teared up a little bit, then went back to his car. He didn’t drive around this time. Instead he just parked and called Katie’s mother.
Katie’s mother told him many things about Katie: how the girl had grown up wanting to be like her father; how the girl had taken up the White Tiger mantle; how she’d joined The Killer’s Gallery, the assassin’s league her father had been a part of.
They talked about Katie until hours after the Sun had set. Eventually, the mother wanted to get to bed.
Prometheus understood. He drove home, a damned question stuck in his thoughts.
Had Katie come here to kill someone?
He wondered. Who?