On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. “To Paris! But why? What do you hope to discover there?” “I do not know,” he answered, “but I am going to see David Courtlaw.
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