Wednesday, April 8
11:03 a.m.
"Who are you and how did you get in here?" Debra Connolly demanded backing away from the door and quickly settling her steel tray onto a table. Ally got the instant impression that Deb knew exactly who she was.
The woman's hair was an ash blond tint above dark roots and was clipped short in a curt style. Her troubled face had stress lines, and her heavy makeup reminded Ally of a younger Sylvia Miles or perhaps a particularly intense real estate agent, except that real estate agents don't charge in on you brandishing a Beretta.
"It's all been a lie," the woman declared her cigarette‑fogged voice shrill. If she recognized Debra, it wasn't apparent.
Ellen hit a button on the desk and spoke into the intercom. "Dr. Vee, could you please come to your office immediately. It's an emergency. There's someone here who—"
"You're damned right it's an emergency," the woman barked at her.
"Hadn't you better give me the gun?" Debra asked, holding out her hand and stepping toward her.
The woman turned and trained the pistol on her. "Just back off, sister. And keep out of this. I know you work for him but you're just a flunky."