Who Buries the Dead
“Sterling? Dead?” Anne Preston stared at Sebastian with parted lips, her nostrils pinched, her eyes wide with horror. If it was an act, it was a good one.
He had come upon her walking in the weak, fitful sunshine in her garden, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her head bowed as if she were lost in thought.
“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian. “Would you like to sit?”
“No,” she said, although he noticed the hand holding her shawl clenched into a tight fist, and her chest rose and fell... jerkily with her agitated breathing. “He didn’t die naturally of old age, did he? Tell me truthfully,” she added when Sebastian hesitated.
“No.”
She swallowed, hard. “Did the killer cut off his head too?”
When Sebastian remained silent, she let out a soft moan and whispered, “Oh, dear God; he did, didn’t he?”
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sit?”MoreLess
He had come upon her walking in the weak, fitful sunshine in her garden, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her head bowed as if she were lost in thought.
“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian. “Would you like to sit?”
“No,” she said, although he noticed the hand holding her shawl clenched into a tight fist, and her chest rose and fell... jerkily with her agitated breathing. “He didn’t die naturally of old age, did he? Tell me truthfully,” she added when Sebastian hesitated.
“No.”
She swallowed, hard. “Did the killer cut off his head too?”
When Sebastian remained silent, she let out a soft moan and whispered, “Oh, dear God; he did, didn’t he?”
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sit?”MoreLess
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