Mirabelle had no idea how she ended up on her hands and knees in her bathroom, splashing her face with water from the tap in the bathtub.
Her hands trembled and more water ended up soaking the front of her clothes than her face, but there was no helping it. At some point, she managed to get some water into her mouth and rinsed out the acidic taste of vomit. She still needed a brush or mouthwash, but the water helped.
Closing her eyes for a second, Mirabelle tried to think. What the hell had just happened? She had a dead body in her house. On her bed. Philbert. They were supposed to meet for dinner at seven-thirty at a restaurant. How the hell had he ended up dead in her bed?
Still trying to answer the thousand and one questions bombarding her brain, another thought occurred to Mirabe
