Truth and Justice - Fern Michaels Page 0,92

and throwing popcorn instead of rice. Bella turned when a little girl who looked to be around ten years old held out a sunflower. “That man over there said to give you this. He said if you hold it long enough, a hummingbird will come.”

Bella whirled around. “Where? What man? Where is he?”

The little girl pointed to a tree across the road from the church. “There was a man wearing a white suit. I don’t see him now. I asked him why he didn’t give it to you himself, and he said he had to get back. It’s a pretty flower, Miss Bella.”

A smile that rivaled the bright sun washed over Bella’s face. “Well, okay then, Andy. Message received.”

Keep reading for

a sneak peek at

the next novel in the Sisterhood series,

BITTER PILL,

coming soon from

Fern Michaels and

Zebra Books!

London—present day

Charlotte Hansen peered closely into the magnifying mirror on her vanity. “Why do I keep having these fog-like moments?” she whispered to her reflection. Looking down at the array of prescription bottles, she could not remember which pills she was supposed to take next. These were supposed to help me, but I feel like I’m getting worse. She had numbered the white caps of the green bottles to make it easier but had forgotten to replace the caps when she took the first three pills. She wrung her hands in dismay . I simply cannot tell Maryann that I’ve messed up my routine again. For sure, she’ll have me put under observation. And what would they observe? A sixtysomething woman losing her memory ? Nothing too odd about that. She heaved a big sigh and decided to skip the rest of her morning routine of taking twelve different pills. What difference will one dose make?

Unless her daughter, Maryann, was counting the pills. With that thought, Charlotte flushed what was left of her morning dose down the toilet. She splashed water on her face, took another deep look in the mirror, and decided she could fake it for the day if necessary.

Charlotte thought a visit to London to see Maryann and her grandson Liam would raise her spirits, but instead she seemed to be in a downward spiral. She would discuss the matter with Dr. Marcus at her next appointment. Checking her desk diary, she noted she was due to see him the next day. Charlotte didn’t care for him very much even though he was effusive and turned on the charm. But he had been recommended by her new personal physician in Aspen—who insisted she have a doctor on hand, particularly in a foreign country. Apparently, Dr. Marcus and her new doctor, Dr. Harold Steinwood, who had taken over the practice of her long-time physician, Dr. Robert Leeland, had studied together in Switzerland, and when Charlotte had told Dr. Steinwood that she would be traveling to London, he insisted that she get in touch with his classmate, Dr. Marcus. In time, she would reevaluate this “miracle doctor” and his “cure” for mental acuity and longevity, but for now she was content to get dressed and prepare for the rest of her day.

Sag Harbor

Dr. Raymond Corbett strolled around his two-hundred-square-foot walk-in closet, deciding which cashmere blazer he should wear to the party. It was finally going to be his big night in the Hamptons. After years of being overlooked by almost every yacht club and country club in the South Fork of Long Island, he had persuaded the Longboat Yacht Club to allow him to become a member. The membership came with a very high price tag. Apparently, one could buy his way into the stodgy organization that catered to old-money and the nouveaux riche. One either had to own a yacht over eighty-three feet, be a power broker, or be some sort of celebrity. He was none of those. He was merely a physician who specialized in longevity wellness. Yes, he had been treating patients for almost a decade now, prescribing placebos and mind-altering drugs to women of a certain age—mostly rich widows, to be precise.

He took one of his Tom Ford designer blazers from the rack and frowned at the brass buttons. They needed to be polished. Now. He pressed his finger down on the house intercom. “Henry!” he bellowed. “Meet me in my dressing room. Now!”

A soft voice replied, “I will be there right away, sir.”

Corbett tossed it on the bed and then chose an Armani blazer to wear. He thumbed through his new collection of striped, button-down shirts and picked a