Cathy appeared in her bathrobe. A door slammed. “Why do you need to go for a walk, Michelle?” Diane asked darkly. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Her cheeks seemed to burn, her veins ran riot, and her heart was beating so fast that she was sure he must feel it through his scarlet coat. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them.
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