“That’s why I killed him,” she says. Her voice is low and cold. I feel a scream rising out of me, but somehow I stop it, hold it back, and instead I calmly imagine the scene: the knife in her pretty hand; the blade slicing into him again and again; skin ripping, blood spurting. But she’s spotless. I pick up the next coat. “Respiratory Medicine, one long.” It’s his. I shake it and out falls a tongue. It’s still soft. Maybe even warm.
