CHAPTER ONE

Blood. So much. Pooling on the slate tiles around his head, it seems ...? I'm not sure.

Jeffrey really is dead?

I always assumed he'd outlive me. Mean people are lucky that way. But maybe that's what's wrong. He used to be mean. He stopped.

Ohmigosh.

My palm firmly pressed to my chest, I quiet my erratic thoughts. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me. I set my purse aside and grip the edge of the countertop. Experiencing a sense of giddiness makes me wonder whether being in shock is possibly a good thing. Tears blur my vision. An uncomfortable heat descends upon me; like the loathsome menopause that plagued me for ten years. Ohmigosh, now I'm blubbering like an old fool.

Jeffrey is gone? I can't believe it.

I slip off my shoes and stand flatfooted. Cold tiles on my bare feet dispel my dizziness. The kitchen phone is on the wall next to the breakfast table, clear across the room. I don't think I can make it. My fingers grope across the marble countertop and connect with Jeffrey's cell phone. I detach it from the charger and gawk at its key pad. A second passes before I think I hear Jeffrey shouting: 911. Dial 911, you stupid woman.

The morning light, unable to force its way through a ceiling of gray clouds, makes the space around me grainy. Like salted air. I suck back sobs and, despite the rancid taste of death, take two deep breaths.

"911 Emergency Services. What is the nature of your emergency?"

"My husband is dead. There's a big hole ...."

"What is your name, ma'am?"

"Warner ... Sally Warner."

"Are you in your residence, Sally? Your ID is blocked. Can you give me your address?"

My address? I think for a moment, then relay it. The smell of blood burns my nose and throat, and my stomach contents rise. Bury the awful images, I tell myself, but I can't take my eyes off the blood.

"The police and ambulance are on their way, Sally. Are you okay? Do you know what happened?"

"Happened? No. I was upstairs. I didn't hear anything. I was getting ready for an appointment downtown. Jeffrey was fine. He was sitting at the breakfast table reading the newspaper when I went up to shower thirty minutes ago--not that I spent the whole thirty minutes in the shower. I had to find the right suit to wear because I've lost a great deal of weight and well, all my clothes feel so weird because they're stiff and new and--"

Ohmigosh. The door's open. Where's Digger!

The operator clears her throat much too loudly. "The police are on their way. Are you alone? I don't mean to alarm you, Sally, but could there be anyone else inside your house?"

"Inside my house?" The hair on my neck stands up. I peek around the corner and stare out through the open service entrance to the quiet threshold. My legs are trembling so badly, could I even make it to the door? The undetectable camera above the monitor shows no one lurking outside. "The service door is open. That probably means whoever did it, they've gone, don't you think?"

"I'm sure it does, Sally. I'll stay on the line with you until the police arrive. They'll be there soon. We'll wait together."

I stare down at Jeffrey's body and wipe my nose. "Okay, that would be good." The smell is quite awful and reminds me of something, but I can't remember what. My frazzled brain registers the word: violence. Violence took place in my home. Violence means anger. Rage. "He isn't well liked."

"The police will be there soon, Sally?" she says in a soothing voice.

"He's only here because he's due in court tomorrow. He always takes the day before to refresh himself and to review the material. Those years he spent in Parliament left him rusty. At least that's what he said when he first got home from Ottawa. But honestly, Jeffrey never does anything half-heartedly."

"Pardon me. Do you mean you're those Warners?"

"He's not well liked at all." I cough. I just referred to him in the present tense. "Jeffrey upset the status quo when he went against the Minister of Defence and urged the taxpayers to spent millions on those new tanks for our soldiers in Afghanistan. Oh yes, and then there was the new uniforms. But what choice did he have? Our troops were dressed in jungle fatigues in the middle of the desert. It was humiliating. Those poor boys."

The operator clears her throat and interrupts me. "Excuse me. Is your husband _the_ Jeffrey Warner?"

That's a dumb question. Unless she means--of course. There are plenty of Warners. But Jeffrey was different. Very different. But even that's not what I'm trying to tell her. He was a complex man, but he was right about one thing: actions speak louder than words. "He hated the world laughing at Canada because we couldn't dress our soldiers properly. So he fixed it."

"Are we talking about … Jeffrey Warner, the ex-Member of Parliament? Jeffrey Warner, the one in the news? Your sons ... ." The operator clears her throat and says. "Oh. Okay. Sure. Uh ...." She mumbles something to someone in the background. It's now that I realize I hear other voices, other operators talking to distressed victims. I'm not the only one whose world is falling apart.

Only, she said 'Your sons' didn't she? She's referring to what happened to Bronson and Declan. She's thinking about the night Declan and Bronson died. Of course, the whole country knew about it hours after the fact.

"I'm right here with you, Mrs. Warner, until help comes. Can you see your husband from where you are?"

"He's lying on the floor," I say, and stop thinking about my boys. "I didn't touch anything. Do you think I should check for a pulse, just in case?" It wouldn't matter. I turn my back on him. A vile stench rises from his body, and I remember the scent: Dead squirrel. Just like the night Bronson placed a dead squirrel in my bed.

"Are you sure you're alone?"

"I don't know. The door's open." With my hand pressed firmly into my chest, I try to calm down.

"Are you using a cell phone? Do you want to go to another room? Maybe outside? I'll stay with you."

"No. I want someone to ...." I don't finish because I'm not sure what I want. Someone to find my dog after they fix this terrible moment. Someone to take my husband's body away and with him the fear I know will stay with me forever.

I clear my throat and cough up my own tears. The operator's breathing heavily on the other end of the line. "No. I just want someone to tell me ... what do I do now?"