Page 72 of Unnatural Death

“… Well, yes, figuratively speaking. I mean thatsomeonecan push my car,” Shannon is saying mirthfully. “At this stage of things, I don’t expect it will be me doing it … !”

I’ve never felt so helpless. Tearing open my backpack where I kept a windbreaker, I was using it to apply pressure on Lucy’s neck when the rescue squad rolled up.

You’re going to be fine, I kept saying out loud as I thought to myself,Please don’t die.

Closing my bathroom door, I put on the pantsuit I wore to work early this morning, having no idea what the day would bring. I’ve been robbed of trust and peace in a way I haven’t in a very long time. Maybe ever, and I imagine my old friend Anna Zenner.

How do you feel, Kay?

She was the only psychiatrist I ever listened to, and I can see her intense face. I hear her firm voice, her heavy German accent.

How do you feel, Kay?

The oldest question in the book, and the biggest cliché coming from a shrink.

Not what you think, Kay. But how do you feel?

Anna wouldn’t stop asking those simple words all the years we knew each other. If only she were still here. When I think of her funeral in Vienna, Austria, it’s a blur of rain and black umbrellas. I still have the impulse to reach for the phone. I would say things to her I won’t to anyone else, including my husband.

I decide on a pair of Uggs that are warm, with a rubber tread for slippery conditions. The snow may look fluffy and festive, but black ice lurks beneath it. Next thing you know, your feet are out from under you. Maybe you break your back. Or end up with a head injury. Closing the toilet lid, I sit down to pull on the tall leather boots, tucking in my pants cuffs.

* * *

Washing my face again, I spritz myself with cologne that triggers memories of plush antiques and sumptuous linens inside a room overlooking the Spanish Steps in Rome. When I walk through my front door tonight, I’d prefer not smelling like the antimicrobial liquid soap my office orders by the fifty-five-gallon drum.

Another spritz above my head, and I feel the mist touching my skin. Closing my eyes for an instant, I inhale a deep fragrant breath before facing myself in the mirror over the sink. My limp blond hair could use a color touch-up and styling. My eyes are bloodshot, my nose and cheeks red from sun and wind.

Rubbing Carmex into my chapped lips, I imagine my sister describing my appearance the minute she lays eyes on me.Death on a crackerorsomething the cat dragged income to mind. I try a dash of lipstick, a little gel in my hair, not seeing much improvement. It’s nice that Dorothy is bringing dinner, and I’m sure she has good intentions overall. She’d swear to it if asked. She’ll tell you she’s selfless and would pass a polygraph.

Except it isn’t true. She means no harm, but her behavior is predictable. Timing her arrival as she always does, Dorothy will make sure she’s at the house when I get there. She’ll be in no hurry to leave, which is further complicated by the weather. Of course, I’ll invite her to eat with us and to spend the night if she wants.

It goes without saying that Benton and I won’t allow her to drink and then drive home in a snowstorm. I’ll be gracious and attentive, all of it disingenuous. I was looking forward to making a simple pizza Margherita and opening a bottle of wine. Maybe a French burgundy that’s complex while not drawing attention to itself. I’ll start with a green salad, tossing it in unfiltered olive oil and a Tuscany red wine vinegar, crumbling gorgonzola cheese on top.

My mouth waters at the thought. I’ve not had much to eat since a predawn breakfast of Greek yogurt and fat-free granola. I don’t know what Dorothy is bringing but don’t have high hopes. She adores hearty fare and fine cuisine if someone else is cooking and cleaning up. Almost always that ends up being me when she and Marino visit. I’ll tell him to join us after he picks up his truck.

He can drive straight to the house even though we’ve spent the entire day together. Selfishly, I don’t want to see anyone when I get home except Benton. I have questions that I expect him to answer, and I don’t like feeling this way.

Feeling what way, Kay?Anna’s voice in my head.

Hurt. Enraged. Naïve. Even stupid. And shaky inside. When I discovered that Carrie is alive, I experienced the same fear I saw on Lucy’s face when she realized she’d been shot. Now I can’t stop seeing her blood spreading through her shirt even as I was terrified that I couldn’t save her.

I can’t stop seeing Benton on video screens explaining lies I’ve been hearing for the last seven years. He looked perfectly put together and unflappably in control while I choked on betrayal I’m not supposed to acknowledge or even notice. I’m expected to be fine with the rules somehow.

I’m not this time!

He should have put me first. It may not be logical or right, but I’m not married to the goddamn government.

You should have told me!

“Hello in there?” Shannon knocks on the door adjoining her office with mine.

I clear my throat, dismayed that I’m about to cry. I don’t know why. Probably I’m just tired, and I blow my nose.

“Come in!” I emerge from the bathroom in my navy-blue pantsuit and Uggs. “Who are you givingfair warningto? Who was that on the phone a minute ago?” I sound stopped-up and keep clearing my throat.

“Marino.” Shannon’s blue eyes linger on my face.

“I had a feeling.”

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