Her mind identifies the puke odor as bitter almonds.

She’s been poisoned.

By whom?

Her husband, Donovan Creed.

Treatment? Antidotal therapy.

What she needs, and fast, is a Lilly cyanide kit: amyl nitrite, sodium nitrite, and sodium thiosulfate, with high-dose oxygen. No problem if she happened to be in or near a hospital. But she’s trapped in her own home.

Without a phone.

Fitting way to end things, Callie thinks. She’s poisoned plenty of others, knows what to expect. Convulsions. Respiratory depression. Pulmonary edema. Bradycardia. Paralysis. Coma. Death.

TV detectives smell a body and say, “Bitter almonds. Cyanide poisoning.”

In the real world, hydrogen cyanide is virtually undetectable below 600 parts per billion. Callie can isolate the smell for two reasons. One, she’s used the stuff often enough, and two, she’s Callie: a woman with super hero powers of hearing and smell developed while catatonic as a child. To put it another way, if a gnat farts in LA, Callie can hear it in Vegas.

And smell it.

Not that this has been an advantage of living with a guy like Creed, who makes few apologies for bodily scents and sounds.

Speaking of which…

She opens her eyes. Sees Creed sleeping soundly in the bed beside her.

Creed the real-life boyfriend. Not the husband who poisons her in nightmares.

Callie has trust issues.

She sighs.

Creed opens his eyes.

“You okay?” he says.

“Sorry. Bad dream.”

He studies her a moment. “Are you still angry about Kathleen?”

“What? Angry? Me?”

2.

Callie Carpenter.

AM I? CALLIE thinks. Am I still angry about Kathleen meeting Creed for dinner last night?

In a word, yes.

Kathleen Gray was Creed’s first girlfriend since divorcing Janet, the nuclear hell bitch. She was also his first true love. They say the first real love lasts a lifetime, but after last night, Kathleen’s life expectancy might be short enough to cause a blip in the insurance mortality table. Callie doesn’t understand the attraction. In her mind, Kathleen’s a dreary, clingy, needy, whiny bitch.