Page 110 of A Taste like Sin
still in the ICU—” She breaks off, staring beyond me, her lips clenched tight. “I’m so scared, honey.
I’m so, so scared.”
“Me too.” I grab her hand, squeezing with reassurance.
Together, we sit in silence, separated from the chaos of the hall.
THE SMELL DRAWS ME AWAKE. SHARP AND CRISP. FAMILIAR? MY NOSTRILS FLARE, IDENTIFYING THE
traces of a masculine scent—but a different breed from the rich aroma tainting Damien. Cigar smoke.
I swear I’ve smelled it before. It’s harsh, evoking images of a stuffy bar or enclosed space. Secretive.
The footsteps approaching me are heavier than Mr. Villa’s as well, but in a way that conveys
something more potent than mere confidence. It’s arrogance.
Before I even open my eyes, a face appears in my thoughts and I name the figure out loud. “Chief
Harrison.”
“Morning, Juliana,” he replies, his tone soft—for Diane’s benefit, I realize. She’s snoring, slumped
onto the couch beside me. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you some questions?”
I stand, smoothing a hand over my wrinkled, stale dress. It’s a gray one of Diane’s, borrowed in place
of the ball gown lying crumpled in a corner. “Of course.”
“This way, then.” He inclines his head.
I follow him into the hall. It’s quiet, presumably early in the morning. Apart from a few scattered
doctors and nurses, the main occupants of the hallway are wearing matching blue uniforms and
sporting guns on their hips. His officers.
“I’m sure you’ve already heard what the doctors believe may be the cause of Heyworth’s decline,”
Harrison starts, casting a glance toward my slightly sore arm. “I’m afraid to admit that we don’t
currently have any suspects. I have to ask… Do you have any idea where your father could come
across something like oleander?”
A hard swallow contracts my throat as I find myself eyeing a section of wall across from us, cluttered
with cheerful signs and reminders of hygiene. One sign in particular catches my interest: a bright-blue
one urging any visitor to avoid visiting while experiencing a list of symptoms. Coughing. Sneezing.
Fever. Pain.
The human body is apparently unoriginal in expressing when something is wrong. Right now, my
throat is on fire, my lungs burning, my muscles throbbing. I lick my lips, ready to say it out loud, that
terrible, horrible thing. It should be easy too. My only suspicion.
