Courtney, your wife's on the line." Brett grimaced. "Okay, Sharon"—his grimace became a look of resignation—"I'll take the call." Marilyn came on the line immediately. "Brett? It's me." "What is it, Marilyn?" "You don't have to sound so testy." "I'm not testy, Marilyn; I'm busy." "Too busy to talk to your wife, I suppose." He sighed. "No, Marilyn." "I just wanted to talk with you, Brett. I just wanted to have a nice conversation. I won't take up too much of your time." "Uh-huh." "I thought you should know: There's some kind of . . . I don't know, some kind of draft in the house, and I can't seem to find out where it's coming from. I've checked everywhere—" "Did you check the attic? The top half of the window that faces the street falls open sometimes. I guess I should fix it one of these days." "No, Brett, I didn't check the attic, but I don't think—" "Check it first, then let me know." "I'm sure you're wrong, but I'll check it if you want." A pause, then: "Oh, and that little crippled girl came over again today." "Little crippled girl?" "Christine Bennet.
