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tears left to cry. She felt wrung out, as dry as a creek bed in August. She was grateful that Dr. Stott had prescribed a mild tranquilizer for her. It was just barely taking the edge off what otherwise would have been a completely unbearable situation.
    The worst aspect of the whole thing for Cindy—apart from missing Debbie and trying like hell to process the thought that her sister was gone and never, never coming back to her—was this feeling of utter loneliness, of complete desertion. It gnawed at her mind like a bloated worm. This same cold, utterly hollow feeling had been with her for three full days, now, ever since that early morning phone call from the police station, informing her of the accident that had claimed her sister’s life. And in all that time, whenever Cindy even thought the word “accident,” which the detective had used repeatedly to describe the incident, she would mentally correct herself and substitute the word “murder.”
    Yes, goddamnit, murder! Cindy thought. That’s exactly what that son of a bitch did to her!
    More than anyone else in the world, Cindy—with the obvious exception of Debbie’s husband—knew the horrible truth about how Alex had treated Debbie. Even today, she could hardly bear to look at him, all dressed up in his fine, fancy dark suit and looking so sad and serious as he accepted the condolences of his and Debbie’s friends and relatives. Behind the glaze of his tear-filled eyes, she could see the dark curtain that had dropped over what he was really feeling, and she sensed—no, she saw and felt the suspicion and hostility he had for her. She knew the truth, and Alex knew that she knew it!
    Cindy’s feelings of anger and outrage rose even higher whenever she thought about Debbie’s two children, Billy and Krissy. Cindy and Harry were seated in the front row of the mourners, right next to the grieving family. Every time she glanced up at her nephew and niece, the tight waves of grief swelling up inside her would grip her throat like a fist and squeeze even harder, choking her until she thought she would have to scream out loud to relieve the building pressure in her head.
    Oh, those poor children… those poor, poor kids!
    Both children seemed to be trying so hard to hold up in this obviously confusing and scary situation. And they were doing a damned fine job of it, too, Cindy thought. Debbie would have been proud of her kids now. Ten-year-old Billy sat ram-rod straight in his just-a-wee-bit-too-small dark Suit, trying hard not to let his emotions show, even though his eyes were red-rimmed and his lips were pale and trembling. And five-year-old Krissy, with her straw-colored hair the exact color of her mother’s, looked so pretty in a prim, white dress and patent leather shoes—the ones Cindy had bought for her to wear to church on Easter Sunday, not so many weeks ago. Small and delicate, she slouched in her chair, her feet not even reaching the carpeted floor. The hanky she clutched white-knuckled in her hands was saturated from her crying and blowing her nose as her gaze darted nervously around the room, trying to absorb everything.
    Jesus, those poor, poor kids… It’s just not fair!
    Following a beautiful rendition of “Just a Closer Walk With Thee” by the Omaha First Baptist Church choir, of which Debbie was a member, Reverend Philip Rutherford delivered a heart-rending eulogy about how the accidental death of someone as pure and devout and kind-hearted as Debbie Harris can cause anyone—even a minister of Jesus—to waver in their faith and trust in the Lord’s purpose; but that it was exactly these tests of faith, like the forger’s fire, that strengthen our faith and assure us, like Debbie, of a place in Heaven.
    Cindy registered less than half of what the minister was saying. She was caught up in her own bittersweet memories of her younger sister… of growing up together in small-town Aurora, Iowa, until their father’s job changed and they had