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the driveway to her apartment. The term apartment was an understatement for the stylish three-story structure. In the light of the harsh orange security lighting, several other identical buildings were visible.
    The heavy oak door of the garage opened soundlessly as she pressed the remote control on the dashboard of the car. An overhead light came on as the racing car nudged into the spacious interior, large enough for four cars. She cut the engine of the Ferrari, and the garage door whirred shut behind the vehicle.
    A black Chevrolet van, with red racing trim and wide tires, occupied the other half of the garage. In front of it stood a black Lamborghini Diablo, gleaming under the bright lights, waiting in vain for his master.
    Marcelle closed the door of the Ferrari and walked to an elevator at the back of the garage. The doors slid open soundlessly after she keyed a code on the keypad. She entered the mirrored interior, shocked when she saw herself in the polished glass. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and she was pale as a ghost. Now she understood why the doctors had believed her story without question. Louis had been reluctant to let her drive home alone, but she had insisted he stay with Stefan and Didier.
    The doors closed, and the sudden pull of gravity on her tired legs made her grab a smooth rail for support. The doors opened a few seconds later on a luxurious living room. She walked down the long passage leading from the living room, the thick carpet muting her footsteps as she headed for the master bedroom.
    She undressed in front of the massive mirror doors of the wall-to-wall wardrobe. The bedroom was large, luxurious, and decorated in shades of blue and white. Blue had been their favorite color, and she had left things the same way. The room held many memories of Jean-Michel, and she wistfully recalled their first night in their new home. They had held a huge housewarming party, the evening ending in passion on the king-sized bed.
    Marcelle caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and was shocked at the naked longing she saw there. This wouldn’t do. Visibly shaking herself, she went to the en-suite bathroom. The bathroom was a soft baby blue with white tiles, and she made her way to the glass shower cubicle. She turned on the powerful spray of the shower, and adjusted the temperature before stepping under the water.
    The hot water peppered her slender body, streaming in sheets over the washboard ripples of her belly, and cascading down her long legs. The young champion’s body was tanned golden brown, with a darker tan starting midway down her thighs and upper arms, the characteristic tan of a professional cyclist. Marcelle had acquired the tan during her preseason training in Spain.
    She turned her face into the spray, allowing the hot water to relax her tense muscles, and soothe her tired mind. Somehow, the soap and face cloth weren’t enough as she scrubbed herself, trying to cleanse more than just the blood and grime off her skin.
    Twenty minutes later, she had dried her hair and dressed in a comfortable blue tracksuit. She rode the elevator down to the garage, and climbed into the black van. If the guards wondered why she left at such a late hour, they didn’t show it, and she drove in the direction of the hospital.
    ~ . ~
     
    By the time they had settled Stefan on one of the twin beds of a guest bedroom, it was after midnight. It had been easy to smuggle him into the complex, hidden in the back of the van. They had unloaded the stretcher in the privacy of the closed garage, ensuring complete secrecy. Doc Louis had also brought all the necessary hospital paraphernalia with him. Oxygen bottles and other medical equipment were stacked on the couch against the wall.
    The German still wore the gown Louis and Didier had dressed him in at the hospital. His IV bags hung from a drip stand at the head of the bed, and the drainage bags hung from a short drip stand below the level of the bed. Though the