After handing Rogers a robe (smooth, white, sexy silk) and donning

one herself, Serena headed for the kitchen. "There's an extra

toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet," she called over her shoulder.

Rogers found there was indeed an extra toothbrush--in fact there were

four--still in their packages and lined up like soldiers. Either

this girl was expecting relatives, or hoping to get REAL lucky. All

the handles were white.

As Rogers brushed her teeth, she tried to recall the events of the

previous day. She remembered that late in the afternoon Serena had

come to the morgue with a question about a vic. They reviewed his X-

rays and Rogers had tried to explain to the girl that the impact of

the blunt instrument could not have possibly been delivered by the

driver sitting next to the vic--it had to have come from someone

sitting behind him. "Look, you feel this place here?" she asked

touching the girl lightly behind her ear. Serena nodded. "The

driver would have had to put his arm completely around the vic's neck

to make the strike." She put her arm around Serena's neck to

demonstrate. "Impossible."

Serena had blushed, thanked her, and quickly left the room. Rogers

had thought at the time that the blush had something to do with the

intricacies of the case, and as for rushing from the room--well, most

people who didn't work in the morgue left it pretty quickly when they

finished their business.

That's why when she found Serena waiting for her after work she

hadn't been suspicious. And when she suggested they go for a drink,

Rogers thought, "Well, hell, why not? I've got no husband waiting at

home, and it IS the weekend." Actually, Rogers felt a little sorry

for the girl. She'd been working as ADA for two years, and was damn

good at her job, but she had a problem when it came to people. The

cops disliked her, her co-workers disliked her, even the cleaning

crew disliked her--and yet no one could give you a good reason why.

Virgin snow, they called her. Unmarked and cold. Her propensity for

all shades of white just reinforced the label.

A strange sound intruded into Rogers reverie--a choking, gasping

sound. Looking down she saw Fluffles, evidently convulsing and

fighting for breath. God, what should she do? She was NOT going to

give that cat mouth to mouth. She tried patting it on the back but

it seemed to make matters worse.

"Serena? Serena!?"

Serena came running in from the hallway. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Rogers pointed to the cat. "Your cat. It's convulsing or

something. Epilepsy?"

Serena's features relaxed. "No. Hairball."

"Hairball?"

"Yeah. You don't know much about cats, do you?"

"Well, no. I've always been a dog person. Will he be...ok?"

"Oh, sure. He'll just sic up and then be fine." Serena smiled at

her--a really dazzling smile--then touched her arm. "He really likes

you. I can tell. And by the way so do I."

With that departing shot Serena went back to her domestic duties,

leaving Rogers to stare at a mound of puke on the bathroom floor.