hands.

"I started to write it." Confused and anxious, Jane glanced toward the

desk. "I started to, but I was waiting for you. I won't finish it, if

we have a deal."

She wouldn't lie, he thought as he studied her face. She wasn't clever

enough. "We have a deal." He turned the case around again. "Go ahead.

Take it."

She grabbed the bag in both hands. For a moment he thought she might

tear it apart with her teeth and gobble it like candy. Instead, she

moved as fast as her bulk would carry her and began to search through

drawers for her works.

He waited, both appalled and fascinated by the procedure she went

through. She paid no attention to him now, but mumbled to herself Her

hands shook, so that she spilled a little. Her breath came loud and

harsh as she cooked the first spoon. She didn't want to skin-pop it;

she didn't want to smoke it. This she would mainline.

Squat on the floor, licking her lips as though she were about to dine,

she filled the syringe. There were tears in her eyes as she searched

for a vein. Then she closed them, leaning back against the dresser as

she waited for the kick.

It did, swelling, speeding, bursting through her. Her eyes popped wide,

her body convulsed. She screamed once, riding the enormous crest.

He watched her die, but found he didn't enjoy it after all. It was an

ugly process. Jane Palmer had no more dignity in death than she had in

life. Turning his back on her, he took the surgical gloves out of his

pocket and snapped them on. He picked up the half-written letter first

and placed it in the briefcase. Fighting revulsion, he began to search,

picking over her things to make certain she'd left nothing else in the

house that might incriminate him.

BRuN GROANED WHEN the phone woke him. He tried to sit up, but the

hangover screamed through his head like a chain saw. Shielding his eyes

with one hand, he groped for the phone.

"What?"

"Bri. I'm P.M."

"Call me back when I'm not dying."

"Bri-I guess you haven't read the morning paper."

"Right the first time. I'll read tomorrow morning's paper. That's when

I plan to wake up."

"Jane's dead, Brian."

"Jane?" His mind stayed blank for ten full seconds. "Dead? She's dead?

How?"

"OD'd. Somebody found her last night, an ex-lover or a dealer or

something. She'd been dead a couple of days."

With the heels of his hands he tried to rid his eyes of grit. "Jesus."

"I thought you should pull it together before the press starts on you.

And I figured you'd want to be the one to tell Emma."

"Emma." Brian pushed himself up against the headboard. "Yeah, yeah.

I'll call her. Thanks for letting me know."

"Sure. Bri He trailed off. He'd started to tell Brian he was sorry,

but he doubted anyone really was. "See you around."