Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. “I like to think of your offer. “I thought I saw her in town to-day,” he said. You are utterly baffling. Her name was Rhea. She had found it in 1988, the year of the stock market crash. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father.
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