“Would you like to hear a story? An unusual story.”

“Of course.”

“Okay. But first you must promise something: that you will never let on where you heard it. And if you ever tell it again, under any circumstances, in any location, in any format whatsoever, you will conceal enough of the story so that it can never be traced back either to me, or to the people I�m going to tell you about. No one will ever know if it is true, or not. No one will ever be able to uncover its precise source. And that everyone will always immediately assume it�s exactly like all the other stories you tell: made-up. Fiction.”

“That seems overly dramatic. What sort of story is it?”

“It�s a story about killing. It happened a few years ago. But then again, perhaps it didn�t happen. Do you want to hear the story?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me your word.”

“All right. You have my word.”

She had an odd look of concern, something a little deeper than trouble, in her eyes. Her voice had an undercurrent of profound misgiving. She leaned forward and took a deep breath and said, “I suppose you could say it started with the moment he found the love letter.”