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because Debbie had confided in her that—yes, at times, usually when he’d been drinking, he slapped her around some?
    Slapped her around some?
    Jesus, more than once Cindy had seen the bruises on Debbie’s arms and back, and Lord knows they had talked often, especially over the past few months, about how Debbie had to get herself and the kids away from Alex before something terrible happened. Last summer, Cindy had been the one who had driven Debbje to the hospital when she had broken her arm. She had fallen off a chair while trying to hang a curtain, Alex had told the emergency room nurse, when he’d showed up later. Even then, Cindy had known better. No one goes about hanging curtains at ten o’clock at night!
    Fallen off a chair! An accident!
    —Murder!
    Just like what happened three nights ago!
    Cindy was certain that this was the lame excuse of a wife beater who, stuck for an alibi, had resorted to the same one he had used the last time he had seriously injured his wife. Wasn’t it obvious from the autopsy that Debbie had been repeatedly abused? Weren’t there traces of other untreated fractures, or unhealed bruises and scars, or signs of head injuries? Couldn’t they see? Wasn’t there any evidence of how bad it had been for Debbie during the last few years of her life?
    But that was the problem: other than her dead sister’s say so, Cindy didn’t have any solid evidence. And that’s why, in spite of her growing suspicions, she had said nothing to the police, at least not yet. She figured the situation must look suspicious enough to warrant them to begin their own investigation into the matter. They didn’t need her telling them what to do.
    Or were the cops too busy with “real” crimes in the city to give this “accident” the necessary time and attention it deserved? Maybe she should report her suspicions to the police and let them take it from there. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? If she could somehow speak from beyond the grave, wouldn’t that be what Debbie would want?
    No, Cindy thought, she wasn’t about to start blurting out unsupported accusations, and then have Alex turn his anger against her! But then again, now that his wife was dead, who would he turn his anger against?
    Oh, Jesus, the kids?
    “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Cindy whispered, shaking her head from side to side as fresh tears spilled from her eyes. She clung even more tightly to Harry’s hand, wishing to God that it felt firmer, more solid in her grasp. She glanced again at Billy and Krissy, wondering how best to help them through this ordeal and give them the emotional support to—somehow—carry on their lives without their mother. She wished to heaven she could protect them, and her heart ached with worry for their safety, a worry that her dead sister had expressed to her so many times before… a worry so deep that Debbie had planned to leave with her children that very night of her accident.
    —Murder!
    Although she knew there wasn’t a shred of evidence that would stand up in court, Cindy was positive that Alex had beat Debbie to death and then set it up to look like an accident. It was murder, no matter what the police or anyone else said! Debbie had been afraid for her safety, for her life; otherwise, why would she have packed their suitcases and been ready to—
    Oh, shit! … Oh, shit!… That’s it!
    A cold, prickly tightening gripped her stomach. She let out a low moan and leaned forward, almost falling out of her chair. The minister droned on, ignoring the minor disruption, and Cindy hoped that anyone who might see what was going on would think she was overcome with grief, but she gave that almost no consideration as her vision blacked out for a frozen, scary moment and the thought exploded in her mind.
    Debbie had suitcases packed and was ready to go!
    “That’s it,” she whispered, turning toward Harry when she sensed that he was leaning over her, trying to comfort her. She felt a warm pressure on