I grabbed my car keys and my purse.

I drove through the quiet suburban streets, my hands tight on the steering wheel.

The windshield wipers swept back and forth, making a dull, rhythmic clicking sound.

I kept seeing Rose’s face in my mind, the way she had looked at me in the diner.

She had looked so tired, so haunted.

And now she was lying on a cold steel table in the county morgue.

I parked in the lot of the medical plaza.

The building was a modern, sterile structure of glass and concrete.

I walked inside, the warm air smelling of antiseptic and wet coats.

The receptionist behind the desk was a young woman with her hair pulled back in a neat bun.

“How can I help you today?” she asked.

“I need to drop off samples for a private relationship test,” I said. “The express option.”

I handed her the manila envelope and the completed forms.

She looked over the paperwork and nodded.

“We can have this processed by tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “But the express fee must be paid upfront.”