I read on, curious to know what had driven Delilah to such despair. I can’t live with the guilt any longer. It was my fault that Eric died. He went flying that day because I goaded him into it. I said I hoped his plane would crash, that it would save me the trouble of divorcing him. I didn’t mean it. We’d been fighting and I was angry. But I also knew what he was like. I knew he would do it just to prove he could. And now he’s dead. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, even if I can’t forgive myself. Ever Yours, Delilah I don’t know quite what to make of her words, though I can imagine the circumstances in which they were written. I picture Delilah alone in a hotel room with a minibar, grieving and racked with guilt. When you drink alone, small problems can seem big, and big problems can seem insurmountable. The unthinkable becomes the inevitable. Obviously, she’d had a change of heart—after sleeping on it, if she was like most drunks—or it would have been a hotel employee, and not me, who’d found her dead body.
