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Nine-1
Nine A HAND ON MY SHOULDER and a familiar whiff of vanilla cause me to open my eyes and sit up. I don’t realize where I am for a moment. Then, as the fog lifts, I look around and see the hospital bed containing a still-sleeping Father Leonard. Sun is streaming through the windows. And Helen is looking down at me, holding two cups of coffee. “Here,” she says, handing me one cup. “I thought you could use this.” “Thanks,” I say, taking the cup and sipping the coffee. Sweet, strong, and creamy. I close my eyes and feel myself reviving. “What time is it?” I ask. “A little after 8:00 a.m.,” she says. “I came over after we wrapped up at the scene.” “Find anything?” I ask as I drink. “Lots of blood. And the murder weapon,” she says. “A kitchen knife, from the knife block in her kitchen. Who
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