Her throat felt stuffed with cotton, every airway sealed shut.
Red welts erupted across her skin, burning and itching at once.
She knew she couldn't wait for Luke to come back. An allergic reaction could kill in minutes.
Penelope grabbed her phone and dialed 911, then called the police.
Her consciousness began to slip. A voice echoed from somewhere far away, from a long time ago.
I take Penelope Simmons to be my wife. I will love her and protect her for the rest of my life. I will never let her suffer a moment of pain or harm.
She collapsed to the floor and closed her eyes.
The rest of my life. How short that turned out to be.
When she woke, the heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.
Penelope lay in a hospital bed, an oxygen mask strapped over her face, an IV needle taped to the back of her hand.
Homer James sat in the chair beside her bed.
"By the time we got there, you were in severe oxygen deprivation. There's brain damage." He paused, his jaw tight. "The doctors said you'll experience frequent headaches, nausea, memory decline. It could affect your ability to work. You'll need long-term rehabilitation."
Homer hesitated before continuing.
"Crystal was bailed out by Luke. He pulled every string he had. Even the higher-ups at the bureau got calls. Back when he was wrapped up in that murder case himself, he didn't go this hard..."
"He got her out around one in the morning. Made a whole production of it."
One in the morning.
So Luke had never come back to the villa. He'd forgotten entirely about the woman dying in his confinement room.
Penelope spoke, her voice raw and shredded.
"Send me a copy of the witness statements from the perfume death case."
Homer nodded and headed back to the station.
The door to her room swung open. Luke walked in, Crystal trailing behind him, looking timid and small.
He approached the bed and took in her ashen face, his brow creasing.
He reached out to touch her forehead. Penelope knocked his hand away.
His lips pressed into a thin line. He withdrew his hand, and when he spoke, there was an edge of accusation in his voice.
"You called the police? Did you even consider what kind of damage that could do to the Gilberts' reputation?"
Penelope looked at him. This man she'd spent five years of her life with.
"If I hadn't called the police," she said at last, "was I supposed to just lie there and die?"
Luke faltered for a second. "A little perfume isn't going to kill anyone."
Crystal set a fruit basket on the nightstand, her expression wounded and meek.
"Miss Simmons, please don't blame Luke. He was just worried I'd be wrongly accused, and he panicked. It's all my fault. I'm just so stupid..."
Luke pulled Crystal against his side, his arm around her shoulders, his gaze soft with concern.
"Don't blame yourself. None of this is your fault."
He turned back to Penelope on the hospital bed. His tone was flat, detached.
"What happened last night should serve as a lesson. Don't let your personal grudges drive you to hurt other people again."
"Crystal scraped her arm at the station. I'm taking her to get it treated. Get some rest."
He turned and guided Crystal toward the door, his arm still around her.
At the threshold, Penelope caught Crystal glancing back over her shoulder. A thin smile played on her lips, laced with triumph.
Penelope stared at the ceiling. Pain lanced through her skull, but her eyes were sharp and clear.
A chime. Her inbox.
Homer had sent the case transcripts.
Penelope read through them with painstaking care, sifting every line for anything out of place.
Her gaze sharpened. She picked up her phone and called Homer.
"Pull Crystal's communication records with the lumber supplier. And look into her relationship with the victim. I don't think she was unaware the wood was contaminated with fungus. I think she deliberately left the sterilization incomplete to make it look like an accident."
"Got it," Homer said.
Penelope opened her messages and found Chief Morrison's thread.
Chief Morrison, due to a medical condition, I may not be able to continue fieldwork in the near term. The international DNA identification project for disaster victims you mentioned before—I'd like to apply. I hope you'll approve my request.
She sent it. Three minutes later, her phone buzzed.
That project requires three years in Germany. Are you sure?
I'm sure.
All right. Focus on healing. I'll handle the paperwork.
Penelope set her phone down.
Outside the window, daylight flooded the sky.
Her heart was still. Quiet as a lake without wind.
