Black Diaries

83. Playing Blackjack

It was the most enjoyable invasive operational procedure in the history of mankind—and of womankind, too, if my lady parts had anything to say about it. It didn't remain the only one I went through, either. Usually, if people go to their doctor to have an operation, and then have to go back to have another, you hear no end of complaints about it. In my case, however, I didn't exactly feel like complaining. I felt like singing and dancing on the rooftops. Yet I didn't do it, because I was too busy being thoroughly treated by Dr. Roy Stein. The good doctor was even so kind as to attend to me at home, in my own bed. That's what I call service.

But I don't want you to get the impression that we had nothing on our minds except bedroom rodeo. Actually, we spent as much as one tenth of our free time outside the bedroom—an impressive feat, considering I wanted to rip Roy's clothes off every time I clapped eyes on him.

As the days passed, we took long walks in the wintery forest together, talking and getting to know each other. While he told me all about his late mother and father and the work he did for Doctors Without Borders every year, I told him about growing up in Hilly Springs and moving from there to New York and then to Europe—leaving out the bloody spree of murders.

Often, we climbed the wildlife observation tower where we'd had our first date to watch squirrels, owls and rabbits. Something from the rabbits must have rubbed off on us. Whenever we were at home, we spent quite a lot of time in the bedroom, emulating their natural behavior.

It wasn't until a week after our tryst at the hospital that something happened that disturbed the blissful calm of my life.

"Oh God!" Paling, I stared down at the newspaper hotline. "Roy, look here! Did you see this?"

Roy, who was sitting beside me at the gargantuan breakfast table of Barrington Hall, leaned over to glance down at the paper.

"Which article?"

"That one!" I pointed to the caption Mysterious Deaths in Hospital – Criminals Die in Heatherwood.

"Heatherwood Hospital, which was shocked last week by having to take in young Mark Stanton after he had been attacked on the streets of Ascot," I read, "was shaken again yesterday by the deaths of Garry 'Headbang' Barnes and Leo 'Weaselface' Logan, two well-known burglars of the London underworld who had come to our quiet little town to rob the Estate of Lady Cassidy Farleigh, a valued member of our community. Fortunately, the miscreants were dispelled from Barrington Hall, where Lady Farleigh currently resides, but yesterday we learned that Barnes and Logan, who sustained injuries during the attempted break-in, died in hospital where their injuries were being tended. An inquiry into the cause of their deaths is being launched."

My horrified gaze rose to meet Roy's.

"Jesus! What if they died of their injuries? What if it's my fault?" Tears started threatening at the corners of my eyes. Not that murdering people would have bothered me, per se, but murdering people I wasn't married to? And on top of that, accidentally? That was an entirely different matter! I mean, murder is an act of great passion, something intimate. I felt that my victims deserved my respect, and deserved to look me in the eye and know exactly why I was going to blow away their stinking ass.

"No! No, Cassy!" Quick as a flash, the paper was snatched away from me, and my hands were covered my Roy's, squeezing gently. "It's nothing like that! I heard about this at the hospital—I just didn't want to bring up bad memories for you. They didn't die of their injuries. One of the needles that was used on them was infected, somehow, and they died of a virus. It's being investigated, and it has nothing to do with you."

I blinked my tears away and gave him a hopeful smile. "Really? You promise?"

He met my eyes unblinkingly. "I promise. Their deaths are not your fault."