Nine
“What?”
Dunstead heard her shriek through the walls. Might have heard it in Mississippi. Didn’t know the old broad had it in her. Alone in the room next to hers, he allowed himself a grim smile. Thought she was playing him like old Miz St. Cyr had played him. She was wrong, but by time she realized it, he’d have what he wanted. And she’d pay for it. She’d pay for it all and give him his walking away money.
He moved closer. The more he knew, the better it was for him. She was hiding something. Her voice was quieter, as if she’d remembered, but stress and panic kept it shrill and penetrating.
“What do you mean—science? Harold didn’t care about science! He added and subtracted, he didn’t—exactly which organs did he donate to these grateful recipients? Problem? Of course not, it’s jus
