Ann Major - The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives

Death.

People died. She was a nurse. She knew that. But she was feeling mystical and sad, not professional. Everybody she knew, everybody she loved, would die, and who knew when or how?

She couldn’t take it in. She felt some huge disconnect with a universe and a God that could let things like this happen just when new possibilities had presented themselves. One minute you were rocking along, and then wham—a rampaging elephant stepped on you. Even vibrant, little Alexis could be gone in a heartbeat.

Rosie turned away from the blood stains, feeling exhausted and jittery.

She wanted to run out, to escape this horror, but, oh, God, she needed to think about this, too.

Cold beads of sweat trickled down her back. Instantly, fear snapped her out of her muddle. She had to get out of here before someone found her.

She was walking rapidly toward the door when the curtains were yanked open. “Looking for something, Ms. Castle?” Michael’s hard, all-too-familiar voice called.

She jumped, caught in a brilliant streamer of sunlight.

“An intimate item of apparel? Black lace, I believe? C-cup…? Matching thong panties?”

“Michael!”

When he stepped out of the shadows, she sprang toward the door.

“I—I saw you at the service,” she whispered. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

“Ditto.” His dark face was grim. “There’s a theory that killers like to return to the scene of the crime. I wondered who’d get curious and have to come up here.”

She notched her chin higher. “I’m not a killer.”

“What were you looking for then?”

“Nothing.” She dusted her hands together.

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