The blinds were closed. She wore only a half slip and a bra. Frequently she wore nothing at home. It was part of a peculiar game she and her late husband had played. She would try to tempt him and he would resist temptation. God! Now that she looked back on it, how sick they had been. The more Al lived in and for the bank, the more she had pulled their relationship apart. Was he really gone? She had to keep reminding herself that he would not be coming home—ever again. The games were over. The sound of the phone seemed unreal. Who would call her at a time like this? Telemarketing, probably. She reached over the arm of the couch and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said absently. “Barbara, this is Marilyn … Marilyn Fradet.” For a second, it didn’t register. “Oh … yes, Marilyn. What is it?” “Did you hear the news? Do you have your radio or TV on?” “No. What news?” “They got Al’s killer!” “What? What are you talking about?” “Turn on your TV. Channel Four.
