Chapter 9
She was so tired her eyelids felt sandpapery. Her temples thudded from the mix of caffeine and adrenaline. Gwen thought she
might not even bother undressing, would just fall face down into bed. And tomorrow Easter would be another day closer.
Only as she pulled into the driveway, her headlights slipped over a figure sitting on the front steps: a broad-shouldered
woman with Farrah Fawcett hair, a suitcase to either side of her. As Gwen climbed down from the truck, Robin Fellows rose
from the steps, brushing snow off her overcoat. She looked good, Gwen thought, and remembered that thing about how at fifty
a person had the face they deserved. With her expertly applied eyeshadow and bright lip gloss, Robin looked like the pop singer
Bonnie Tyler.
“You didn’t expect me to buy that rubbish you texted?” Robin asked.
“Fuck’s sake,” Gwen said, but not because of Robin.
Because a battered white Elantra, filthy with road salt, was pulling in along the curb, and Tana was rolling down her window.
Allie sat in the passenger seat looking miserable . . . though not entirely contrite.
“Allison tells me you’re going to die soon,” Tana said. “And the odds are she’s right. Because if you don’t explain what’s
going on, I’m going to kill someone, and you’re handy.”