My legs gave out beneath me, a wave of dizziness crashing over me as I stumbled back towards my office, the weight of the file in my hand suddenly feeling heavier than lead. My eyes scanned the words on the page repeatedly, as if trying to make sense of a nightmare that refused to fade: "Jane Doe was found two weeks ago in an alley in the 2400 block of Gilmore St in Monroe, Ouachita Parish. Unable to find any ID and no positive ID on fingerprints or dental records. An anonymous benefactor has paid for the funeral of Jane Doe."
Two weeks? It felt like mere moments ago that I had shared fleeting moments with this woman. The reality hit me like a ton of bricks, threatening to suffocate me with its weight. Just yesterday, I had spent a few precious hours with her. The bile rose in my throat as Mr. Babineau's deep voice echoed from the mortuary, jolting me back to the present.