The AngerThe gun dropped from my hand, and I myself would have fallen if Morton hadn’t caught me.
“Oh, gods,” the Inventor moaned. “My poor Anna.”
She lay upon her back fully clothed. Blood congealed between her breasts around a large knife, but she had other cuts as well. Her eyes lay open, staring.
My vision blurred. Who would kill Anna? Why?
But for the sound of Inventor Call’s weeping, the room was quiet. Yet the lights were on.
Anna had customers, deliveries. Sooner or later someone would knock as we did, see the lights, deduce that someone must be inside.
We couldn’t be caught here. I couldn’t be caught here. I couldn’t be involved in yet another murder.
I dashed tears from my eyes. Why would they cut her? I remembered Madame Biltcliffe, her horrible wound, the blood.
And the
