Flopping down, he turned on the TV and flipped through the channels in search of a distraction. He stopped when the same black-and-white picture of Ellen Horton used in the newspaper filled the screen. He listened to the reporter for a minute before clicking off the TV. Damn it, Ellen! he thought. She had just invented the cure to the modern-day plague, why would she kill herself? Disheartened, he tossed the remote control on the floor.

Death. He’d seen too much of it over the past weeks—Thomas Mallek, Parminder Singh, and, now, Ellen. All linked by MRGAS. And Kilburn had played an inadvertent role in all of them. Another wave of guilt swept over him.

The past weeks had reinforced the cliché that life came with no guarantees and few second chances. He wondered how many regrets Mallek, Singh, and Horton had taken to their graves. Then he thought of his biggest regret. Impulsively, he reached for the phone and dialed Michelle’s number.

“Hello?” she answered on the third ring in her naturally scratchy voice.

“Hi,” he said.

“Graham?” Michelle asked, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” he said. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not really,” she said impassively. “My caller ID says you’re calling from Pennsylvania.”

“I’m in Philadelphia,” Kilburn said, enjoying the sound of her voice.

“Why?” she said. “Something to do with MRGAS and Oraloxin?”

“How did you know?”

“There was a story on the news tonight,” she said, warmth creeping into her voice. “They said you were responsible for finding the only effective antibiotic. Is that true?”

He smiled to himself, unexpectedly grateful that his name had come to light. “That’s a bit of a stretch, but I was involved,” he said. “I don’t know if I ever mentioned it to you, but I went to med school with Ellen Horton, the woman who created Oraloxin.”

“The one who committed suicide?” Michelle asked in surprise.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“I thought the name sounded familiar,” she murmured. “She was a friend of yours, eh?”

“In med school.”

“I’m sorry, Graham,” she said tenderly. “Do you know … why?”

“Not really.” They shared a brief silence. Kilburn cleared his throat. “Sorry, Michelle. I didn’t call you just to bring you down.”

“Why did you call, Graham?” she asked.

“I was returning your call,” he said. “You left a message with Louise?”

“Yeah,” she said. “That can wait. I just had a question about … um … our joint account.”

“Oh,” he said, fighting to keep the disappointment from his tone. “How are you, Michelle?”

“I’m okay,” she said neutrally. “You know, work’s crazy now.”

“Good crazy?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “A dream project. We got the contract to renovate the ninety-year-old cathedral off Seymour Street. Of course, once I saw what was behind those walls, the dream turned into a bit of a nightmare.”