Better not to have witnesses, he said. The license plate, for instance, Steiger grumbled. She fumbledwith the cap on the prescription bottle of Propranolol, finally tippinga pill into her trembling hand. Mitch Holt didn't love her, he hadneeded her.
He held up crossed fingers. She began to cry silently, tears rolling down her cheeks, herhand pressed over her mouth. Sickened by the possibilitiesthat pried open in her mind. He waited for the stab of guilt, that jagged dagger that had plungedinto his heart after every sexual encounter he'd had since Allison'sdeath.
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