Chapter 7 - The Crumbling of the White Coat
The crunch of the gravel suddenly stopped.
The blonde woman whipped her head over her shoulder.
The sharp, aristocratic lines of her face went entirely slack.
Her perfectly arched eyebrows shot upward.
Her mouth parted, the perfectly applied lipstick stretching into an oval of pure shock.
The man stopped walking.
He stood ten feet away from the grave.
He did not look at the white trench coat.
He did not look at the beige stilettos.
His jaw was set like a block of carved granite.
The blonde woman took a sudden, jerky step backward.
Her hands, which had been balled into tight fists, suddenly sprang open.
Her manicured fingers began to tremble uncontrollably against her sides.
Her heel caught on the uneven edge of a stone marker.
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She stumbled.
The pristine white coat suddenly looked oversized and flimsy against the backdrop of the dark trees.
