There are always surprises.
There was a sale. Yep, that nearly sums it up. Of course, there is also the fact that this has been a miserable summer with no rain at our house and 40 days over 110 without much chance of that changing.
I really need fall. So I bought it. In soaps and lotions and candles.
But even the candles weren’t immune from the heat. This poor guy melted and not in a good way.
Until next time, stay healthy.
Chapter 8
Iona stared across the rolling grass in the park. The meteor shower streaked overhead, but it was the light show on the ground that interested her most. The grass was glowing. Not all of it, just parts. How was this possible? And had no one else noticed because everyone looked up?
Kneeling, she swept her fingers through a glowing patch. Moisture clung to her skin. It was wet. A bubble of hysteria burst past her lips. Of course. Water would reflect light. She swiped her thumb over the pads of her fingers. For a moment, her thumb glowed. She blinked as it faded away.
Footsteps sounded beside her, light as if made by a child.
Iona snapped her attention to the right.
Standing on the cement path, Mia had one leg crossed over the other as she bounced up and down. The potty dance was universal.
“Do we need to go home?”
“Can’t I use the bathroom here?” Mia’s black ponytail brushed her shoulders as she pointed at the brick building one hundred feet away. Circles of light splashed the graffiti and the stainless steel drinking fountains.
Iona rubbed the back of her neck. Stories of child abductions and murder crowded her head. She shook them loose. She could keep the entrance and exit within sight. “All right. Be careful.”
“I will.” Mia raced toward the building.
Rising, Iona stepped into the grass and turned to face the public toilets. Other parents and children orbited the building. A group of disc golfers discussed teams at a picnic table nearby. The little girl should be safe. She was certainly easy to track.
Mia’s hair waved behind her like a flag before she ducked inside the building.
Iona resurrected her earlier thought. Water would make the grass glow, but not in patches. The whole park should be lit up. She reached inside her pocket for her phone. Maybe Marcus would know. She could call him. And say what? Ask if he’s observing the same phenomenon. She eyed the park grounds. The glow had stopped. So her question would be at best lame, at worse, proof she was a nut job.
So where did that leave her? The sky lit up again, and the ground mirrored the effect. Iona snapped her fingers. Of course, a picture would be proof. She scanned the park, looking for the brightest patch. A ball of light drifted to the ground. What the heck? Phoenix did not have lightning bugs. And then she saw it.
The disc golfers hung glue sticks around the baskets for their nighttime game. A few slashed the ground like discarded exclamation points.
Well, shoot. Now what? Iona opened her camera app. She would have to avoid the disc park. She nearly turned away then stopped. Mia was still in the public restroom.
As if hearing Iona’s thoughts, Mia skipped out of the bathroom.
The blink of light on her sneakers caught Iona’s attention. The glow brightened as the little girl approached the patch of darkness. Iona smiled and raised her camera. And it wasn’t just her shoes. The disc golfers trudged past the bathroom, the wheels of their carts and soles of their shoes reflected the light.
Iona raised her phone to take a picture.
The sky brightened, but the ground’s response faded.
Around her, the crowd oohed and awed.
She glanced up. Fireballs tore up the night.
A scream ripped through the park.
Iona’s heart leaped in her chest. That was no shriek of joy. Mia! Iona’s attention snapped back to Earth.
Mia shoved through the crowd of disc golfers and shot straight toward Iona.
Nails digging into her phone, Iona rushed to meet the little girl halfway. The sky darkened, and night blanketed them. She knelt to catch the girl.
Mia threw her arms around Iona’s neck. Her body trembled.
“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” Iona ran her hands down the shaking body. No broken bones. No hisses of pain. Yet, something had happened to frighten the child half to death.
“A man. A man, he grabbed me.”
Hot tears clung to Iona’s neck. The little girl buried her face, hiding from the thing that had frightened her.
Iona blinked, trying to process the words. “What? Someone grabbed you?”
Mia nodded.
The words couldn’t connect in Iona’s head. But the little girl was here, in Iona’s arms. Something wasn’t adding up.
Mia shuddered. “He put his hand over my mouth and lifted me off the ground. I kicked and kicked, but he…he wouldn’t let go.”
Iona scanned the park. The area was large, and parts were very dark. People moved in all directions. Most stopped here and there to stare up. But a few didn’t. Could one of them be the man? Humming a soothing melody, Iona smoothed the little girl’s hair, “It’s all right. You’re safe now. I won’t let him get you again.”
Mia shook her head. “He don’t want me. He said to say to you that he’s watching. So you better behave or else.”
On this day in 1851, the sewing machine was patented. I remember sewing in Home Ec in 7th grade. That first year, I made a tee-shirt and a hamburger pillow.
I still have the pattern for the pillow but don’t know what happened to the tee-shirt.
When I got married a while ago, one of the first things we invested in was a sewing machine. I made clothes for my kids, my husband, and myself.
Now, I use it mostly for quilting, but I still love the sound of a sewing machine, the feel of the fabric in my hands, and the neatness of the stitches. The sewing machine unlocked a load of creativity that has gone on for nearly 17 decades.
So thank you, Mr. Singer.
Until next time, stay healthy.
Chapter 7
Marcus ducked into the kitchen, sliding behind the granite island and heading for the recycle bin under the sink. He inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of his sister’s sweet and sour meatballs and his brother-in-law’s smoked pork. Even after everyone had grazed for the last hour, food still mounded the island.
His brother-in-law Fyodor waved his hands up, down, and sideways as he discussed the Diamondback’s Super Bowl chances with the neighbor.
Or was it the World Series? Marcus didn’t care enough to find out. He jerked his chin in acknowledgment of their existence and silently prayed they wouldn’t rope him into their conversation. Of course, worse traps waited for him, and he had no one but himself to blame. He should have known this meteor shower get together would be more than just family.
Like their mother, his sisters had never met a stranger they didn’t want to feed. And that applied double for their neighbors.
Too many of them were single women, swimming through the crowd like piranhas smelling blood in the water chummed by his sisters.
He was the chum or chump.
Marcus balanced his empty bottle on the heap of refuse filling the recycle bin and considered taking the trash outside. Maybe he could catch his breath. Not that many guests were actually outside watching the meteor shower. Sweat beaded his lip. But then his chances of being cornered increased if he left the safety of the crowd.
Safe being a relative word.
Just not around his relatives. Marcus needed an exit strategy.
Gabriella something-or-other tossed her dark hair over her shoulder and glanced at him from under her lashes. Her preteen son looked up from his phone to glare at Marcus.
The kid obviously had issues about his parents’ recent divorce. Marcus had been there, done that, and had the counseling bills to prove it. He turned, keeping her in his peripheral vision as he sidled up to the fridge.
Single lady number two wasn’t much better. He couldn’t even remember the name of the bottle-blond with recent LASIK surgery. Connie? Or was it Candy? Her horse laugh had him running for earplugs. The only thing that made her attractive was that she wasn’t looking for Mr. Right, only Mr. Right Now. Unfortunately, she also had a satellite child. This time a teenage son full of intelligence subsumed by hormones.
No, thank you. Marcus’s sons were still in their full head remodel of the teen years and had at least a handful to go before becoming rational human beings again.
Marcus snagged a carrot off the tray of crudités and ran it through the dip.
Across the room, his oldest sister Naomi glared at him.
Marcus popped the carrot in his mouth and chewed. Even with the mound of onion dip, they were pretty tasteless. How did Iona enjoy the things? Iona. She probably had some exciting plans for tonight’s meteor shower. Plans that didn’t involve family obligations, dodging babysitting assignments, and matchmaking siblings. Knowing her, she was outside enjoying the meteor shower.
Opening the refrigerator door, he stared inside but didn’t really see the contents. Maybe he should return to his parents’ house. Overseeing the renovations was a second full-time job, but given that he lived two houses away, the ladies could corner him there.
And then where would he be?
Marcus blinked. Seventy-two bottles of assorted Czech beers, a couple dozen Polish ones, and three English lagers. Even if he drank it all, it wouldn’t make him stupid enough to date any of the prospective candidates his sisters threw at him.
He grabbed the English lager, knowing it would piss off his brother-in-law Fyodor and popped the top. He hoped Fyodor and Naomi got into a big fight over Marcus’s pilfering. Then again, it could make his sister more determined to make sure he didn’t miss out on wedded bliss. Raising the bottle to his lips, he washed down the carrot and lingering taste of onion.
Motion caught his eye. His two potential dates approached him from opposite flanks. Despite their casual gait, they were closing fast.
Marcus ground his teeth. If they spotted each other, things could get real ugly real fast. Time to retreat. He’d heard Pittsburgh was lovely this time of year. He made a beeline for the kitchen door. Once he slipped through, he could escape into the alley and skulk all the way home.
Heart drumming in his ears, he neared the edge of the kitchen island.
The women picked up their pace.
A hand clamped on his shoulder. Fyodor’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the pilfered lager. “So how are the renovations going? I got plans for that money.”
Marcus shrugged off his brother-in-law’s grip. The meathead was always slapping something by way of a macho greeting. Couldn’t he get it through his thick skull that some people preferred a firm handshake to physical assault? “We’re still on track for the May listing.”
“Still May, huh?” Fyodor shoved a chip in his mouth and chewed as he talked. “With all the help we gave you after Mom and Pops died, I thought you’d be done by the end of April at the latest.”
“You don’t say,” Marcus grunted. The family’s help had consisted of descending the day their father’s body was taken to the mortuary from the hospice to ransack his parents’ possessions. His loving sisters had cherry-picked everything, even attempting to snabble Marcus’s belongings. Those days had been almost as joyful as a root canal without painkillers.
Fyodor’s small forehead narrowed, creating ripples all the way to his receding hairline. “Are you sure you’re not just making stuff up to live rent-free for a couple more months?”
Marcus shook his head. “It’s not rent-free, and you know it.”
He paid the mortgage every month and didn’t charge the family a dime for his time and coordination of the contractors just as he’d promised his parents. Sometimes it sucked being the oldest child. If he’d had a choice, he’d live in a smaller place that was energy efficient.
Fyodor nodded then shrugged. “With a May listing, we could have some family barbecues this summer.”
“Not once it’s listed. The place has got to stay in pristine shape to get top-dollar.” And Marcus would have a reason to avoid cookouts where he purchased everything and had to clean up later. He took a long pull on his beer and edged closer to the back door.
His sisters had corralled the women and sequestered them in different corners. Hand gestures flew as they whispered and sized him up.
Great. Marcus would bet his sisters were doling out advice on how to win him over. His advice would be to leave him alone.
“So which is it going to be? Gabriella or Cindy?” Fyodor planted himself in Marcus’s path.
Damn, his sisters had enlisted the meathead. So much for gender solidarity. “Neither. I’m not interested.”
Fyodor shook his head. “What, are you gay? They’re both beautiful women with enough meat on their bones for that extra cushion. And speaking of cushion. Gabriella had her boobs redone. There’s something to be said for firm and perky versus droopy bananas.”
Marcus stared at the beer bottle in his hand. If he smashed it against the granite counter, he could use the jagged edge to cut off his ears, then he wouldn’t have to hear his brother-in-law’s sexual preferences. Then again, he could just leave. Although only two feet away, the door might as well be on Mars.
“So, which is it going to be?”
Marcus drew a deep breath. His sisters were waiting for a nod from his brother-in-law before releasing the hounds. Goddamnit. They had ganged up on him. “Neither.”
“You need to pick. Your sisters made promises to your parents. Deathbed promises.” His brother-in-law shoveled two more chips into his mouth already inhabited by crumbs. “Pick perky boobs. You shouldn’t regret it.”
He regretted it already. Marcus set his half-empty beer on the counter and opened his mouth to respond. His phone rang; the old-fashioned jangle of bells drew attention. What now? He tugged his cell out of his front jean’s pocket and glanced at the screen. Peter Lynn from college. What could he be calling about? What did it matter? Anything was better than this conversation. He eyed his sisters then his brother-in-law. “Tell my sisters I’m fine on my own.”
Without waiting for a reply, Marcus thumbed on his phone and stalked outside. At least Peter Lynn offered a chance at a topic he might be interested in. Heading for the back gate, Marcus held the phone to his ear. “Peter. How is it going?”
A muffled sob rattled through the connection but no words. Had he been butt-dialed? He rechecked the screen before pressing the phone against his ear. “Peter?”
“No. No, it’s not Peter.” The woman’s voice was shaky, and her sniffles were watery.
“Bernice?” Marcus made the connection. Peter’s wife was the only one who would have access to his phone. “Is everything OK? Is Peter OK?”
“Peter’s dead.” Her bombshell exploded, blasting waves of silence, each more deafening than the last.
Peter? Peter was dead? Marcus floundered in the thought. It didn’t make sense. He stopped in the middle of the yard. Fresh growth caused the yard to look fuzzy. A few meteors streaked overhead. His conversation turned primitive. “How? When?”
“Cancer. It was cancer.” Bernice exhaled a shaky breath.
Marcus shook his head. “But he beat the cancer. Two, no three years ago.”
“It came back.” Bernice blew her nose. “It came back so fast. One minute he was fine and healthy, rattling on about a big project. And the next, he’d collapsed and was taken to the hospital. And the cancer… The cancer was everywhere.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. What can I do to help?” Marcus had experience with funeral arrangements, death certificates, insurance paperwork, and the Social Security Administration bureaucracy.
“Peter left you something.”
Marcus blinked. “He didn’t have to do that. His friendship was worth more than anything to me. You know that.”
She spoke as if she hadn’t heard him. “He changed toward the end. I should’ve known something was wrong. But it wasn’t like he’d had brain tumor before.”
“Changed how?” Marcus winced. Brain tumor? Peter would have hated the loss of his mental faculties. When he’d realized he’d lost the battle, would his friend have decided to go out on his own terms?
“He thought someone was watching him.” Bernice sniffled. “The doctor says… The doctor says the tumor’s location could’ve caused the behavior.”
“I see.” But Marcus didn’t. Not really. Peter had undergone nine months of chemo to beat the cancer the last time. Peter’s attitude hadn’t changed. Not one iota.
But it hadn’t been brain cancer last time.
“Can you come by after the funeral?” Bernice cut into his thoughts. “I’ll give you the package then.”
Marcus nodded. “Of course I’ll be there. When is the funeral?”
A doorbell sounded on Bernice’s end. “I’ll send you the details. I—I have to go.”
“Right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.” He spoke to the dial tone then stared at his screen. Bernice had always been painfully polite to him, but now… Grief was a rabid monkey on every mourner’s back.
A hinge squeaked behind him, and he pivoted on his heel.
His sister Naomi charged across the porch. “Cindy really is the better of the two. I know you’re not so shallow as to want someone with a boob job.”
Marcus sighed. “Peter Lynn is dead.”
She reared back. “Your friend from school?”
“Grad school.” Marcus nodded. They’d bonded over a shared tyrannical thesis advisor. “His cancer returned. With a vengeance.”
But he’d had slow-growing cancer before. What had changed?
“Peter was your age, wasn’t he?” Naomi tilted her head and tapped his chin.
“Yeah.” Marcus’s hindbrain kicked in, screamed at him to run.
“All the more reason why you need someone by your side. Like Mom and Pops wanted.” Naomi’s features squished together, aping a look their mother had perfected when she wanted to guilt him into doing something.
He’d been immune for years.
“Cindy would be great to take to the funeral. I’m sure she can offer you comfort afterward.”
Marcus’s mouth opened and closed. What in the world was wrong with his sisters? “You never give up, do you? No matter how inappropriate, no matter how many times I tell you to butt the hell out of my life.”
Naomi flinched.
He’d never yelled at her before. Never raised his voice. He was the calm one, the one always left in charge, the one his folks always left to take care of their children while they worked two jobs.
Naomi squared her shoulders. “I promised Mom. And it isn’t going to hurt you to take Cindy out.”
Marcus squeezed his skull between his hands. “You don’t take a date to a funeral.”
“You can’t be alone, Marcus. It’s not natural.”
Turning his back to his sister, he stomped toward the gate. He had two options—either continue to avoid their matchmaking and eventually be worn down by their stubbornness or offer an alternative solution that would stop them. His fingers hovered near the latch. He almost smiled. Almost. That would give everything away. Opening the gate, he stood half in and half out of her yard. “I’m not alone, haven’t been for a while. But we’ve just decided to try for something beyond friendship, and I don’t want you lot ruining it for me.”
Naomi folded her arms over her chest. “So, what are you saying?”
The back door creaked, and his sister Annie tumbled outside. “Who did he pick?”
“Neither one.” Naomi held up her hand. “Apparently, he’s trying to tell me that he has a girlfriend.”
“He’s lying.” Annie joined her sister on the grass. “This mystery woman doesn’t exist. Does he even have a name for her?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. He was in it now. Guess this was just what he needed to ask Iona out. “I’m not making Iona up.”
“Iona.” Naomi hissed. “Is she Greek? Mom always said, you can’t trust the Greeks.”
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. He loved his mother, but she always had a saying for everything. And none of it was good.
“When can we meet this Iona?” Annie plucked her phone from her pocket as if she had such a busy life she needed to consult her calendar.
“Never.” Naomi sniffed. “Apparently, she needs to be protected from barbarians like us.”
Marcus smiled. If they were mad at him, then he could have even more time to himself. Who knew being rude had such benefits.
“He’s lying.” Annie pointed at him. She sniffed the air reminding him of velociraptor searching for its next meal after being on a weeklong diet. “Look at him twitch. You’re throwing a barbecue this weekend, brother, and if this Lola person isn’t there, then I’m giving Gabriella the spare keys to Mom and Pops’ house and telling her you liked her best.”
“Fine.” He let the gate slam behind him and stalked down the alley. At least he had four days to tell Iona she was now his girlfriend. Where was the apocalypse when he needed it?
Morning comes later when the sun sets earlier. Fall is coming:D
Our kitties are growing up. I think they’ve doubled in size.
Thankfully, our other cats are tolerating them better.
The dog still startles them and then they poof up and hiss at them.
Until next time, stay healthy.
Chapter 6
Kim Garcia leaned back in the lounge chair, crossing her bare feet at the ankles while the evening breeze tugged on the cover-up, trying to expose her bikini. Adults and children rested on chairs, clustered around tables, or bobbed in the water of the hotel’s rooftop swimming pool. Most focused on the meteor shower over their heads.
Swirling her wine, Kim raised the glass high and peered at the night sky through the burgundy liquid. Ancient humans had considered meteors and comets bad omens.
Not so for Kim. Each point of light was a dollar sign, recognition for her growing company, and that much closer to ending her association with Contact 21. The shady prick had already taken Tupper off her hands. Her future burned brighter than the space debris catching fire in the atmosphere.
She sipped her wine, rolling the liquid over her tongue and tasting the floral notes before the bitter hit — not a bad year. The chilled glass sweated in the warmth of the evening. She finished the rest of her drink in two swallows.
A couple oohed and aahed as a particularly bright meteor streaked across the velvety sky. Throttling the wine bottle, Kim tipped it up and dumped the rest into her glass. A single drop clung stubbornly to the lip. Like she would give up so easily. She shook the bottle, forcing the last drop to fall into her waiting glass. “Gotcha.”
A waiter appeared from the nebulous fringe of darkness beyond the pool’s aqua glow. “Would you like another bottle, madame?”
Madame. Damn, that made her feel old. Kim shook her head, then nodded. “A bottle of your finest spring water. Chilled on the bucket of ice and a cold glass to put it in.”
She giggled and ripples raced across her wine. James Bond had nothing on her.
“Very good, madame.” The waiter withdrew after wiping away the ring of moisture her wine bottle had left on the table. Like it had never been.
A chill snaked down Kim’s spine, and her stomach clenched. The sushi she’d eaten for dinner threatened to revisit her mouth. She swallowed hard. That’s what she got from eating fish in the desert. It had absolutely nothing to do with her solo consumption of a bottle of wine. She snorted then covered her mouth in case she snorted again.
So what if she was a little tipsy? She deserved this celebration. She’d finally found the last group of scientists to grow that damn fungus. She didn’t get why Contact 21 wanted so many companies on the job when a handful would do.
But God help anyone who tried to find answers.
Not that she had understood that factoid in the beginning. She shifted her drink close, splashing wine over the lip. She blotted the dots on her bare leg then sucked her finger. Those first mobile labs had problems—electricity, containment; even the stupid UV lights had glitches. But those bugs had been worked out months ago — no more freaky contamination issues.
She glared at her drink before draining the last mouthful. Holding it against her palate, she allowed her tongue to swim in the sensations. So why were they back to ten labs working on the solution? The first three were yielding fabulous results.
Hell, two were even on the cusp of achieving runaway growth of the fungus.
And receiving the promised financial reward.
Big money. Too much money for one person to invest in such a risky venture. It had to be a government project. She swallowed the wine. The world dipped and swayed as she sat up. She missed the blurry end table the first time but slid the glass on the second time. With a smile, she flopped back on the lounge chair and let her head loll back.
“Enough.” Why was she obsessing over the details? She was about to get paid. A bundle of cash that would make all her problems go away. She squinted at the stars then fidgeted in her seat. Nope, that nagging feeling had her by the throat and was throttling her.
Maybe she should keep an eye on things, not directly, but sideways, specifically through Iona Edwards. Yeah, Kim understood the inconsistencies the background check had revealed.
Although from middle-class roots, Iona had been educated at elite boarding schools and had rubbed elbows with the children of the upper half of the one percent. She’d spent holidays and vacations, not slumming with her family, but on yachts, castles in Europe, and private islands. Hell, the girl had barely managed to squeeze in her parents’ funeral service before jetting off to a party in Paris. Still, for all her cold-hearted lifestyle, she didn’t have the kind of connections required for industrial sabotage.
Too bad, her privileged friends attracted Contact 21’s attention.
Warmth traveled through Kim’s veins, and she yawned. Maybe tonight, she’d finally get a good night’s sleep. She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking the wet locks and draping the ends over the back of the lounge chair. A yawn threatened to unhinge her jaw just as the waiter appeared with her bottle of water.
He cracked open the bottle then poured the contents into a clean glass. “Will there be anything else?”
“Just the bill. Thank you.” She signed the ticket, then reached for her phone. Maybe she should go to bed early. The phone vibrated in her grasp, and she nearly dropped it in fright. She really was letting the job get to her. Laughing under her breath, she closed her fingers around, and blinked the readout into focus.
The phone vibrated again. Green bubbles rose from the bottom of the screen to hover near the top.
Dammit, when had she turned it to vibrate? Steadying her thumb on the home button, she unlocked her phone. Words swam into view. One leaped off the page. Funeral. Her mouth dried. The alcoholic haze burned off, clearing her thoughts. Whose funeral? There’d been so many in the beginning, but that was behind her now. Wasn’t it? She scrolled through the messages.
Who had died?
The bubbles grew in size as she scrolled. Dr. Peter Lynn lost his battle with cancer? Dr. Peter Lynn? Lynn? Lynn. The name clicked. She’d given his group the fungus two months ago. Kim straightened. Fear soured her mouth.
And he’d been exposed to the fungus in a lab accident a week ago.
There was no hint the fungus caused cancer. She sagged into the cushions. This death was natural causes. Thank God. She stared at her phone, looking for the information. Funeral services would be in two days. She would send flowers.
A link took her to his obit. Crap. His bio listed his association with her company and a special project he’d been involved in. Contact 21 wasn’t going to like that. In fact, he would hate it. She scrolled through the rest.
Nothing incriminating.
Still… She opened her email, looking at the Google results for a mention of her company. What the ….? Another obit mentioned her company. And another. She pulled each one up. Another cancer. Leukemia for the second. A third had a stroke and caused a car accident.
The hair on the back of her neck rose. Her company was the common link between the deaths. No, not her company. Contact 21.
Her internal alarms caused her to tremble. She stabbed the home button and searched for other researchers on the fungal project. Seventeen dead. That was everyone working on the project for the last two months and didn’t include those who had died from the cleanroom failures. She scraped a hand down her face then reached for the glass of water.
She had to warn the others. She had to… Say what? The head of the project is a lunatic?
A shadow stumbled into the chaise next to hers and mumbled an apology.
Her ears prickled, then her arm blazed with warmth. Her head snapped up as she cradled the limb. A thin red line snaked down her forearm. Her fingers tingled then numbed. The phone dropped onto her thighs.
“Let me get that for you.” The shadow shifted her phone to the table.
Contact 21! Her tongue was foam in her mouth. Panic clawed at her, but her body didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. “Wh!”
Drool slipped down her chin.
“Relax.” His warm hand pushed her back against the chair. “It’s almost over. Just a few more seconds.”
Over? Her life. Her chest stopped rising and falling. Her brain screamed for oxygen, but it wasn’t going to happen. She looked into his face, the face of her murderer: hers and how many others?
He smiled at her. “My own concoction. Not even a tox screen will pick up a trace. It’ll look just like a heart attack.”
A bubble of rage built inside Kim. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair. The bubble grew pushing out everything until it consumed her, and then it popped, taking her life with it. As soon as she released her final sigh, Contact 21 walked away, whistling an old gospel song as he melted into the shadows.
The other day, the number of deaths from COVID-19 was -1. I immediately thought zombie apocalypse. Others thought resurrection (aka Jesus was back). Seems neither was right.
Linda Andrews 