Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. She entered quietly and padded up to her shared bedroom. Gosse cursed him finely, of course, but there was nothing he could do. She prevaricated. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. In truth, Sheila never saw Lucy murder anyone at all, she only saw the blood. That is what stands between us, if you would know—that. Besides, it is all reversed now, you know.
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