Marianne was redoing an entire batch of DNA amplification that had somehow become contaminated. Evan picked up the mail sack and the news dispatches. When he came into the lab, where Marianne was cursing at a row of beakers, he uncharacteristically put both hands on her shoulders. She looked at his face. “What is it? Tell me quickly.” “Gina is dead.” She put a hand onto the lab bench to steady herself. “How?” “A mob. They were frighteningly well armed, almost a small army. End-of-the-world rioters.” “Was Gina . . . did she . . . ?” “A bullet, very quick. She didn’t suffer, Marianne. Do you want a drink? I have some rather good Scotch.” “No. Thank you, but no.” Gina. Marianne could picture her so clearly, as if she still stood in the lab in the wrinkled white coat she always wore even though the rest of them did not.
