Once again the Midwest was an oven. The tall grass and mindless reeds which lined the highway seemed impossibly resilient. Without air-conditioning she would have melted. Her head throbbed—she had slept poorly. She had taken four Tylenol and her brain had snickered: gimme something stronger, babe. Some of those blue Percocets. But she dared not dull her senses. Today she reclaimed her life. Or else her life ended.

Trenton was her first stop. Parking in front of Dr. Fred Banks’s house, the place looked like a bed-and-breakfast for coma patients. Pain gripped the paint and wood like a cloud of regret neither wind nor confession could eliminate. At the end of his tale, she had not felt sorry for Dr. Banks. Why? Because he had lied? Because he had given the world his murdering son, and warned no one? As she walked toward the front door, she felt pure dread.

She knocked and there was no answer. Unlike with Michael and Julie, she had not called ahead of time. She did not know the old man’s schedule. Maybe he was out of the house. The afternoon sun was hot and ugly. She paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead and check her gun. Knocking again, she felt her impatience grow. She decided to break in, what the hell. It was not like he would sue her.

But the front door was unlocked. Sticking her head inside, she called out, “Dr. Banks? Are you there?”

No reply. Drawing her gun, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

The silence of despair. The house was so still she felt reluctant to inhale. The air was thick with imagined odors—they pierced her brain before her nose. Moving from the living room to the kitchen, she kept calling for the good doctor. The place gave her the creeps.

In the end she had to go upstairs. She didn’t really want to because she had an inkling what she would find. There was an aura of death that extended beyond the five senses. She found him in bed lying flat on his back. His arms laid by his side; his eyes were open. His blue jeans and red flannel shirt were not pajamas. He had not lain down to die.

After checking the rest of the house to make sure she was alone, Kelly knelt by his side and put on a pair of plastic gloves. He was still warm. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. He had been dead less than six hours. Today of all days—made for a hell of a coincidence. Closing his eyes, she noticed a prescription jar on the table beside his bed.