from fainting, but her breathing was choppy. Lewis ordered Caltrane to get her a glass of water, and he seemed relieved to leave the main room in search of the kitchen.
She covered her mouth with her hand. Her palm was damp, her fingers icy cold and trembling. Tears filled her eyes, but they were tears born of shock, not grief. It was too soon for grief.
What she felt was disbelief. This simply could not be happening. It had to be a bad dream from which she would awaken. Soon, please. Relieved, she would say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that it was only a dream. She might recall it later in the day and shudder, and then she would do something silly to help shake off the grim remnants of it. By tomorrow she would have forgotten it entirely.
Or if it wasn't a nightmare, it was a dreadful mistake. The police had the wrong house, the wrong person. They had made a grave error. She would sue the Dallas Police Department for putting her through this.
No, no, wait. She would send each division of the department a gift basket of fruit and cheese and summer sausages because she would be so glad that they'd been proved wrong.
But when she lifted her watery gaze to the police officer and asked if he was sure, she realized that her fantasies about nightmares and mistakes were just that—fantasies.
"One of your sister's neighbors knows that she's an early riser. She went over to borrow some coffee around seven-thirty this morning. She rang the doorbell several times. Ms. Lloyd's car was there, so the neighbor lady knew she must be at home. She knew where the spare key was hidden and let herself in. She found her in the bedroom."
Caltrane returned with a glass of tap water. Lewis took it from him and passed it to her. Fearing she would throw up if she tried to swallow anything, she set it untouched on the end table next to her chair.
Lewis continued. "The neighbor gave your name to the investigating officer. He sent us over to notify you."
"She's dead?" She shook her head with misapprehension. "How?"
Lewis glanced uneasily at his partner, but neither was brave enough to say anything.
"Answer me," she demanded, her voice cracking. "You said ... you said there was some trouble. What kind of trouble? With the furnace? Was she asphyxiated? Did she have a heart attack or allergic reaction? What?"
Lewis said, "Uh, no, ma'am. It looks like murder." Her lungs wheezed on another sudden exhale.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Lloyd. There's just no delicate way to put it. Your sister was killed. Rather viciously."
"Viciously?" she repeated in a thin voice.
"Investigators are already at the scene. A crime scene unit is on its way."
She surged to her feet. "I'm going over there."
"That wouldn't be wise," Lewis said hastily, patting the air between them. "Your sister's body will be taken—"
"I'm going over there."
She rushed into the bedroom and threw off the robe and nightgown. She grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from the closet and pulled them on, then shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. She grabbed her wallet and car keys, and, in under two minutes, rejoined the policemen at the front door.
Seeing the car keys clutched in her hand, Lewis offered to drive her there.
"I'll drive myself," she said, shoving him out of her path.
"I can't let you drive in the state you're in, Ms. Lloyd. You'd be a danger to yourself and other motorists. Maybe a friend could come—"
"Oh, all right. I'll ride there with you. But please, let's go." "Remember the house is a crime scene," he said. "You might not be allowed to go inside."
"I'd like to see someone try and stop me."
The drive from Melina's house to Gillian's took exactly eleven minutes. They had timed it. But at this time of day, the school zones were activated. The mute Caltrane drove slower than the posted speed limit, so the short trip seemed to take three times longer than usual.
Lewis, who was riding shotgun, consulted her several times along the way. "Are you all right, Ms.
She covered her mouth with her hand. Her palm was damp, her fingers icy cold and trembling. Tears filled her eyes, but they were tears born of shock, not grief. It was too soon for grief.
What she felt was disbelief. This simply could not be happening. It had to be a bad dream from which she would awaken. Soon, please. Relieved, she would say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that it was only a dream. She might recall it later in the day and shudder, and then she would do something silly to help shake off the grim remnants of it. By tomorrow she would have forgotten it entirely.
Or if it wasn't a nightmare, it was a dreadful mistake. The police had the wrong house, the wrong person. They had made a grave error. She would sue the Dallas Police Department for putting her through this.
No, no, wait. She would send each division of the department a gift basket of fruit and cheese and summer sausages because she would be so glad that they'd been proved wrong.
But when she lifted her watery gaze to the police officer and asked if he was sure, she realized that her fantasies about nightmares and mistakes were just that—fantasies.
"One of your sister's neighbors knows that she's an early riser. She went over to borrow some coffee around seven-thirty this morning. She rang the doorbell several times. Ms. Lloyd's car was there, so the neighbor lady knew she must be at home. She knew where the spare key was hidden and let herself in. She found her in the bedroom."
Caltrane returned with a glass of tap water. Lewis took it from him and passed it to her. Fearing she would throw up if she tried to swallow anything, she set it untouched on the end table next to her chair.
Lewis continued. "The neighbor gave your name to the investigating officer. He sent us over to notify you."
"She's dead?" She shook her head with misapprehension. "How?"
Lewis glanced uneasily at his partner, but neither was brave enough to say anything.
"Answer me," she demanded, her voice cracking. "You said ... you said there was some trouble. What kind of trouble? With the furnace? Was she asphyxiated? Did she have a heart attack or allergic reaction? What?"
Lewis said, "Uh, no, ma'am. It looks like murder." Her lungs wheezed on another sudden exhale.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Lloyd. There's just no delicate way to put it. Your sister was killed. Rather viciously."
"Viciously?" she repeated in a thin voice.
"Investigators are already at the scene. A crime scene unit is on its way."
She surged to her feet. "I'm going over there."
"That wouldn't be wise," Lewis said hastily, patting the air between them. "Your sister's body will be taken—"
"I'm going over there."
She rushed into the bedroom and threw off the robe and nightgown. She grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from the closet and pulled them on, then shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. She grabbed her wallet and car keys, and, in under two minutes, rejoined the policemen at the front door.
Seeing the car keys clutched in her hand, Lewis offered to drive her there.
"I'll drive myself," she said, shoving him out of her path.
"I can't let you drive in the state you're in, Ms. Lloyd. You'd be a danger to yourself and other motorists. Maybe a friend could come—"
"Oh, all right. I'll ride there with you. But please, let's go." "Remember the house is a crime scene," he said. "You might not be allowed to go inside."
"I'd like to see someone try and stop me."
The drive from Melina's house to Gillian's took exactly eleven minutes. They had timed it. But at this time of day, the school zones were activated. The mute Caltrane drove slower than the posted speed limit, so the short trip seemed to take three times longer than usual.
Lewis, who was riding shotgun, consulted her several times along the way. "Are you all right, Ms.
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