George Soper stood in the kitchen of the Park Avenue penthouse. A tall, heavyset woman was reheating some homemade chicken soup. Half the house was ill, suffering from a suspicious outbreak of typhoid.
“Still caring for the sick?” the investigator asked.
Mary knew the man was trouble. If he’d tracked her here, he already knew about the other people, the other cases. And if word spread, her reputation would be destroyed. She’d never recover.
Mary grabbed whatever was close and sharp – in this case, a carving fork.
She’d fight to protect her name, never understanding how many had already suffered.
The Weekday One Hundred 