THE TINT OF MYSTERY SERIES
There she was, lying on the table.
She was staring at the ceiling through eyes that saw nothing.
Barely recognizable as a person, she was nude but heatless, bluish, and brutally treated. The people standing around her were suitably somber. It was February 2014, Valentine’s Day to be exact, and none of them really wanted to be there. They had families or lovers or dinners waiting. The fading daylight outside the window was tinting the buildings amber, a reminder that the holiday was slipping away.
Besides, they had already reached their conclusions about who and what she was. And what happened to her. But they were stuck there waiting for one last person to arrive and weigh in on the matter. It was a matter of courtesy. The director standing right next to her began to tap his finger on the table in a parody of impatience. The sound bounced slightly like a tiny drum in a toy band. When they thought they heard someone at the door, they all looked up with hope. Not just for solving the mystery of the woman on the table, but for getting home before the day grew too old to enjoy.