He leaned forward and kissed my forehead. "Don't talk. Just get your strength back. You've been unconscious for a day and a half."
I caressed the scar on his forehead, nearly healed now, and showing a bright red on the untanned skin under his hair.
"Lana?" I asked.
Glenn didn't answer for several seconds. Then he heaved a sigh that must've cleared his lungs. "Lana ... didn't make it."
"Oh, God. Faith. She's sick too." I tried to sit up, but collapsed back weakly, both hands to my temples. "Ooh. Someone shut off the fireworks."
He touched my arm with soft comfort-inspiring fingers. "Relax. Faith's fine. She just had a cold bug."
"Lana."
"Later."
"Now!"
Glenn sighed again, and relented. "There's not much to tell. They couldn't save her."
"The punch?"
"A combination of Malathion and Parathion, in the brownies. Someone apparently used a dropper to put it on top of them. It wasn't on all of them, only the ones at the front. The police figure whoever put it there got distracted by something."
"In our home."
"Apparently."
I hadn't asked a question. It was a statement that levied intense emotion again. I remembered the violation I'd felt at the hands of those teens in the black pickup. This was miles worse even, than that. Some immoral maniac had entered our premises. "Who?" I asked.
"It could have been just about anyone. We were all near the snack table at one time or another."
"Anyone else ... sick?"
"Not seriously. Apparently Lana ate two brownies, and that's what it took. You never finished the second one, thank God."
"Glenn, that means someone tried to murder me, Lana, us ... oh, God." What was happening? Twice in a week, someone had attempted murder.
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