12
The auditorium exploded.
People leapt to their feet, some craning to see Lash’s prone form, others plowing through the cramped rows to get to the aisles. The sudden smell of sick fear cut through the fug of tired travelers and mediocre breakfast.
Driven by the sudden hammering of Dale’s pulse, his hands clenched into clumsy fists.
Dale knew exactly what made someone turn that color red.
He’d read any number of murder mysteries where killers used cyanide.
Fresh sweat exploded down his spine. His legs tensed, the flight-or-flight reflex kicking in.
Ridiculous. Lash must have keeled over from something else. Something natural. Like a stroke or an appendix or something.
A cluster of people grew at the front of the auditorium, obscuring Lash’s slumped figure. Someone raised a hand.
