Gail's blood. It seemed to be everywhere.Paul led me up to the bedroom and waited while I stripped. He wrapped me gently in a multicolored beach towel, hugged me for a long minute, kissed the top of my head, then stuffed the ruined slacks and sweater I had been wearing into a plastic garbage bag. "Bath," he ordered. I eyed the bag. "My clothes?""Do you really want to keep them?" Paul asked.I shook my head.Paul chewed his lower lip, a sure sign he was worried about something. "The police—" he began.Somewhere in my paralyzed brain comprehension dawned, and I finished the sentence for him. The police might want to examine my clothes for evidence. I stared at my husband and tried desperately to swallow around the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my throat."Bath," Paul repeated, taking hold of my shoulders and turning me in the direction of the bathroom.This time I obeyed.Shut away in the womblike comfort of our master bath, I turned on the tap, dumped in some lavender bath salts, and crawled wearily into the tub.
