As he and Tsion tiptoed through the house, it became obvious something was amiss in the tiny breakfast nook at the back. Buck gaped, and Tsion turned away and bent at the waist. Sandy Moore had been at the table with her newspaper and coffee when a huge oak tree crashed through the roof with such force that it flattened her and the heavy wood table. The dead girl’s finger was still curled around the cup handle, and her cheek rested on the Tempo section of the Chicago Tribune. Had not the rest of her body been compressed to inches, she might have appeared to be dozing.
The deaths keep getting more and more gruesome.
