She was lying awkwardly on a chaise longue, Rachel’s concerned face staring down at her. Blonde strands had escaped from the younger woman’s bun and she looked more stressed out than Minerva had ever seen her. “Oh thank God,” Rachel spluttered. Minerva wetted her lips. She struggled to sit up. She shook her head and the world seemed to move with it. “Did they get him?” Rachel’s brow wrinkled. “Who?” “The guy—the one with the blood on his hands.” The image was burned into her retinas, the dark-haired man with glasses, holding the heart high, red meat slippery and wet between his pasty fingers. “Blood? What are you talking about?” Rachel’s voice rose with concern. “You didn’t see him? He was right there.” She remembered him standing at the edge of the stage staring up at her, pink tongue pressed between his lips, dark eyes fixed on hers behind the frames of his glasses, blood dripping from his hands onto the white studio floor. “Security didn’t notice him?”
