Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Killed is too kind a word. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. "You've given him a broken head, I perceive. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard.
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