Her husband had died a month prior of a heart attack brought on by picking his parents unwisely—genetics. Mrs. Felding had been attacked on the street as she’d climbed out of her limousine to enter her apartment building. “I’d just returned from visiting a friend.” Her hands shook as she pulled thin black gloves from her fingertips. “He came out of nowhere and tackled me.” Ivana drew in a deep, shuddering breath, trails of mascara running the length of her face, blending with the too-red lipstick, giving her a downright scary, horror-movie appearance. Then her shoulders hunched and she sobbed. She threw herself against me, pressing her wet face against my leather jacket. I patted her back awkwardly, then tried to peel her off my chest. I was almost more frightened of her than of the zombie who’d attacked me. Weepy, make-up-stained women gave me a rash. I guided her around a throw pillow that had been tossed carelessly to the floor and pushed her none too gently into a lounge chair.
