Ruth reaches into her pocket. It’s a brilliant advance in women’s fashion, dresses with pockets. A woman should always have a place to stow small items.
The syringe is cool against her palm.
“Lin,” she says softly.
Linda looks up. Smiles. That open, trusting smile that Ruth has seen a thousand times over thirty years.
Ruth moves like a cat. One fast, fluid jab and the syringe is in Linda’s neck, its plunger depressed, shooting its poison into her jugular vein
Linda’s eyes go wide. First with shock, then betrayal, and, finally, understanding. A small smile, out of place, considering, crosses Linda’s lips.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth says, and means it. “I really am.”
Linda’s hand comes up and reaches for Ruth’s face. She’s not fighting, just touching. Like she needs the contact one last time.
Then her hand falls. Her eyes glaze over. She slumps against Ruth.
Ruth checks for a pulse. Nothing.
Linda’s gone. Potassium cyanide works quickly and efficiently if you know what you’re doing.
Ruth supports Linda’s weight, her hands under Linda’s armpits, and closes her eyes for just a moment. Thirty years of partnership, intimacy, and trust.
It was all real. And it all failed to outweigh the mission. For both of them.
She opens her eyes, lowers Linda’s body to the pavement, and takes her phone and keys from her purse.
She walks away purposefully. She doesn’t look back.
The archives are next. She needs to move them before anyone realizes Linda is dead. Before any dead man switch triggers, although Ruth doubts Linda even set one.
In the end, Linda trusted her.
She always did.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sasha checks her watch for the third time. Linda was supposed to give her speech ten minutes ago. The program is getting backed up.
She scans the ballroom. No Linda.
She catches Abigail Ashworth’s eye and crosses to her table. “Have you seen Linda?”
The dean purses her lips, thinking. “Not since Caleb’s speech. What a lovely event you two put together.”
Sasha smiles. “All the credit goes to Linda. If you’ll excuse me, I should find her. She’s supposed to speak next.”
She scans the room, the halls, and pops her head into the ladies’ room, calling Linda’s name. Nothing.
Marco’s mother looks over from the sinks, where she’s reapplying her lipstick. “You’re looking for Linda Morrison, the librarian?”
“Yes.”
“I saw her walking Mr. Rye out after his speech.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
