It was a feverishly repeated refrain in Karen Corselli’s brain. She wielded the foaming brush and high-powered sprayer at the coin-operated car wash, applying extra care around the front bumper and the undercarriage of her dark red rented Taurus. Thou . . . Shalt . . . Not . . . Kill. Oh, merciful God, I know that You understand the necessity of removing Sasha Miller from this world and forgive me that un-Christian spurt of satisfaction when I hit her. You must have. Otherwise You surely never would have infused me with Your light, never would have allowed me to taste of the Glory and the Power. Karen scrubbed and sprayed, scrubbed and sprayed, warmed for a brief instant by the recollection of that raw infusion of savage gratification. Then a cold chill rolled down her spine. It was Amy she had struck. Feeling complacent, she had blended back into the aborted party without anyone even realizing she’d been gone, and that’s when she had heard who had been hit. Oh dear merciful God, forgive me .
