“This is beautiful. It’s really thoughtful of you, Dr. Scarpetta. I’ve never had anybody bring me something from San Francisco before.”

The expression of her face pricked my heart, and suddenly my surroundings came into sharper focus. Susan was wearing a yellow terry cloth robe, frayed at the cuffs, and a pair of black socks that I suspected belonged to her husband. Furniture was scarred and cheap, upholstery shiny. The artificial Christmas tree near the small TV was scanty decorated and missing several limbs. There were few presents underneath. Propped against a wall was a folded crib that was dearly secondhand.

Susan caught me glancing around and looked ill at ease.

“Everything is so immaculate,” I said.

“You know how I am. Obsessive-compulsive.”

“Thankfully. If a morgue can look terrific, ours does.”

She carefully folded the scarf and returned it to its box. Pulling her robe more tightly around her, she stared silently at the poinsettia.

“Susan,” I said gently, “do you want to talk about what’s going on?”

She did not look at me.

“It’s not like you to get upset as you did the other morning. It’s not like you to miss work and then quit without so much as calling me.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. I just can’t seem to handle things too well these days. I really react. Like when I was reminded of Judy.”

“I know your sister’s death must have been terrible for you.”

“We were twins. Not identical. Judy was a lot prettier than me. That was part of the problem. Doreen was jealous of her.”

I liked Susan and I felt hurt and deeply troubled. She was not being honest with me.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about?”

I asked, my eyes not leaving her.

She glanced at me and I saw fear. “I can’t think of anything.”

I heard a car door shut.

“Jason’s home,” she barely said.

Our conversation had ended, and as I got up I said quietly to her, “Please contact me if you need anything, Susan. A reference, or just to talk. You know where I am.”