A feeling of utter relief swept over her. The simple act of standing in the eatery’s familiar kitchen went a long way toward erasing the horrors of the morning. She peeled off her flared jacket, which now felt like a ship anchor, and slung it over a hook behind the door. Then she made a quick trip to the bathroom, where she washed her hands for a solid five minutes. The officer who’d taken her fingerprints had given her a solvent to remove the oily black ink. Still, nothing could take the place of a good scrubbing with soap and water and a hefty dose of elbow grease. Unfortunately, even soap couldn’t scour away the image that stuck in her mind. She couldn’t stop seeing Turnbull’s blue eye, staring and sightless, and that knife poking out of his neck. Talia swallowed back the lump that had been blossoming in her throat all morning. Drawing in a long, calming breath, she ran her fingers through her short blond hair.
