Shaking from head to foot, Ken stared stupidly at her. He had trouble in holding the flashlight steady.
He put a shaking hand over her left breast, getting blood from her on his fingers. He could feel no heart beat.
“Fay!”
His voice was a hoarse croak.
He stepped back, wanting to vomit, feeling a rush of saliva come into his mouth. He shut his eyes and fought back the sickness. After a moment he gained control of himself and, unsteadily, moved further away from the bed. As he did so, his foot touched something hard and he looked down, turning the beam of his flashlight on the object.
Lying on the carpet was a blue-handled ice-pick, its short, sharp blade red with blood.
He stared at it, scarcely breathing.
This was murder!
The discovery was almost too much for him. He felt his knees give, and he sat down hurriedly.
Thunder continued to rumble overhead, and the rain increased its violence. He heard a car coming swiftly up the road, its engine noisy and harsh. He held his breath while he listened. The car went on, passing the house, and he began to breathe again.