His statement was treated with derision. “Who do you think cares for your children as you dally with my husband, Clotilde?” Lucy asked. She almost submitted to this ending of her adventure. He smothered it down with such a good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. Cocking the gun. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. She had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing.
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