Joan Wilberforce felt sick. She really wanted to throw up, to rid herself of the lead in her stomach and the pressure in her lungs. That would mean sticking two fingers down her throat, but it would not work: wrong kind of nausea. This sickness encompassed your whole body; pervaded your mind; drove right into your very soul.

As she lay in her own bed for the first time in a week, Joan thought back over her life. Now that she had experienced love properly (as she had told Linda), the time with Jack and Terry had been a pale imitation of the feelings she was now experienced.

There was just one problem: Linda Harrison Welch was a murderer. Joan was sure of it. She had killed Thomas Hodgson. There had been something in Linda’s eyes. That was no suicide. Joan’s lover had killed Hodg...

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