The Secret Lives of Doctors' Wives

“Okay. I get it.”

Anita looked up at her, her dark eyes glittering with dislike…and something else.

“No, sweetie, you don’t,” Yolie said. “That’s the problem. She almost looks scared of you.”

Feeling worse by the second, Rosie scuttled quickly toward the dining room, where the table was piled obscenely high with platters of food—salmon, deviled eggs, fruit, fried chicken, ham, chips and dips. Even though she’d skipped breakfast, she had no appetite. She wanted one thing—to see the bedrooms upstairs.

Rosie left Yolie and the boys loading their plates, and stealthily headed for the staircase, which she ascended quickly. Trying not to look at the yellow tape that sealed off the master bedroom at the end of the hall, she marched up to the door of Pierce’s guest bedroom. This door was also shut, but the knob turned easily. She looked around the hall and, when she saw no one, slipped inside quickly, shutting the door behind her.

Walking briskly toward the bed, she knelt and lifted the dust ruffle so that she could peer under it. Her heart thudded, but all she saw were a few errant dust bunnies; no sexy bits of black lace.

Hopefully, Pierce had found them and hidden them from Anita before his death. Rosie got up and walked around the queen-size bed, kneeling several more times on the wild chance they were still there.

Nothing.

She stood up slowly. Then she raced out into the hall.

She was about to go downstairs again when she turned and stared at the yellow tape. Would it be so terrible if she went inside? She looked around, and when she saw no one, slipped under the yellow police tape forbidding entrance. Careful to make no sound, she went inside and shut the door.

The drapes of the master bedroom were partially drawn. The room was dark. Aware of an antiseptic smell, she shrank against the door. When her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she shivered at the sight of dark stains and spatter on the light-colored carpet and ceiling.

Pierce had died here. Even in this taped-off room of death, why couldn’t she get that he was really gone?

Other than the bloodstains, the room with its purple bedcovers was exactly as she remembered when her designer had finished with it a year ago. Glancing furtively over her shoulder to reassure herself she was alone, she went toward the dark spots and stared down at them.

Pierce…At last she felt a warm wetness trickling down her cheeks. He was gone; really gone. She’d seen people die—many people, but not like this. Never like this. And she’d sent him into this room.

She wanted to scream that this couldn’t have happened, that this couldn’t be his dried blood. He couldn’t have been here, so vital one minute, and then just be gone. Not when he’d consumed so much of her heart and soul for so long. Not when he’d begged her to come back.

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.