Sally stalked through the news room, her stride ominously resolute. A large tote bag woven out of pastel-dyed straw hung on a strap over her shoulder, and her hair flailed around her face in ripples of reddish-brown.

Todd braced himself. He hadn’t seen her since the meeting in the office of one of Paul’s law partners for the reading of Paul’s will, three months ago. Todd had been both honored and dismayed that Paul had named him the executor. The job would be tedious and time-consuming, and it would mean continuing contact with Sally, but he respected Paul’s desire not to give her the opportunity to mismanage his estate.

He hoped she hadn’t come to argue with him over the will. Paul had left her comfortable, and the rest was going to Rosie. If Sally had any intention of messing with that, Todd would set her straight.

She swung into his office and he realized, somewhat belatedly, that she was furious. Her eyes were usually a gentle blue, but now they seemed diamond-hard and cold. Her hands were clenched into fists and her bosom rose and fell with each determined breath. Something strange was dangling from her ears. Gold dice, maybe.

Paul’s cuff links. She’d looped them through gold wires, and now they hung from her ears, looking ridiculous.

“What do you want?” he asked, none too graciously. He knew Sally didn’t expect courtesy from him. They’d never bothered to pretend a fondness for each other when Paul was alive. They certainly weren’t going to pretend now.

“I want the truth,” she retorted.

He was distracted by the rhythm of her breathing. Her breasts were plump beneath the bodice of her floral-print dress. Paul had always claimed to prefer petite women—yet one glance at Sally’s voluptuous figure and he’d succumbed like a drooling adolescent.

Fortunately, Todd was immune to her endowments. “What truth?” he asked, refusing to smile or offer her a seat. If he did either, she might mistakenly believe she was welcome.

She set her tote bag down on one of the visitor’s chairs with a clunk and glowered at him. “Who was Laura?”

“Laura?” He frowned. “Laura who?”

“You tell me.”

He sighed with forced tolerance. “Look, Sally—some of us have important jobs to do. If you want to play twenty questions, we’ll have to do it some other time. I’ve got a newspaper to publish.”

“I’m not playing twenty questions. I want to know who Laura was. Some woman Paul was having an affair with, right?”

Todd was shocked into silence. Paul having an affair? He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t. Todd had known Paul for fifteen years, and he just wasn’t the sort to do that. Affairs were too messy.

He tried to imagine it. Tried to visualize Paul sneaking around, making coded telephone calls, contorting himself for a little fun and games in the Alfa Romeo’s bucket seats. No, Paul wasn’t that limber.

And beyond that, no, he wouldn’t have an affair. He was too decent. Decent to a fault, in Todd’s opinion.

“He was fooling around with a woman named Laura. You were his best friend. You must have known.”

“You’re crazy,” he told her. If she was suffering from delusions, he wished she would take her delusions and suffer somewhere else.

“She wrote him letters. He saved them.” She started rummaging through her tote bag. Hearing things clink and rattle in there, he tried to guess what she’d packed in it. A key chain, for sure. A tire chain. A pair of cymbals. Some plumbing hardware. Enough spare change to keep a Las Vegas slot machine fed for a year. Something scratchy—a currying brush, perhaps. Chopsticks. A great deal of crinkly paper.

Her hand emerged from the hidden depths of the tote, clutching some of that paper—a bulging manila envelope. “Letters,” she said, hurling it onto his desk. “Icky love letters.”

He glanced warily at the envelope. “Icky?”

“Purple-prose letters. Nauseatingly poetic. Who is this woman? I think she’s got my knife.”

“Your knife?”

“Well, technically, Paul’s knife—but only because I gave it to him. It was a family heirloom, and she’s got it. Who is she?”

“I have no idea,” he insisted.