She looked to him; her eyes reddened from lack of sleep and tears, and whined, “Why her, why Cynthia, who would kill her, she was so innocent, loved by all, why?” That she did not know him, did not seem to bother her at the moment and then the stench hit her, she had smelled death before, but never like this, never without the smell of a ammonia to mask it and before she did anything else she bowled over and wretched, bile and red wine spewing from her mouth, a long spittle of red-tinged bile hanging from her lower lip.