"Heather," Penny snapped her fingers near Heather's face before recoiling, covering her nose quickly. "What's that smell? What is on you?"
Heather didn't even flinch. She was too tired to react.
"Rotten eggs," she said simply.
Penny furrowed her brows, confused. "Is this part of the scene or something?"
Heather looked up at her slowly. Her face held the same deadpan expression it had carried for the last hour.
"What do you think?"
There was silence for a moment. Penny didn't speak. But her mind was racing, and Heather knew her well enough to see it. Penny was putting the pieces together.
Of course, she'd think of Lauren. She always did. Lauren's name hovered like smoke in any situation that smelled like this—literally or figuratively.
Penny's eyes scanned Heather's stained dress, the dried slime on her arms, and the strands of hair stuck to her temple with egg whites.
She wanted to ask if Lauren had really stooped this low—but decided against it.
