Eleventh Hour

man, and there was no other proof but the journal. Anyway, John Rothman wrote that he killed this Melissa Gransby because she cheated on him with this Benson character?”
    “Evidently so. John couldn’t forgive her. The pages were full of rage, over-the-top, unreasoned rage, and Cleo wrote that she could see that Melissa’s unfaithfulness had changed him, twisted him, made him incapable of trusting a woman.
    “She wrote that it did make a bit of sense since his mother had cheated on his father, and it hurt him deeply. Evidently he told her this when they were first married.”
    “Did he tell you this? About his mother?”
    She shook her head. “No, he’s never told me anything.”
    “So Cleo Rothman found his journal, read his murder confession, and she just up and left him? With this aide? Jesus, Nick. Ain’t a whole lot of credibility here.”
    “No, no, she wrote that she didn’t leave with anyone. She said she didn’t even know where Tod Gambol was. She was never his lover, had never been unfaithful to John. She loved John, always loved him, but she was terrified, and so she just ran. She became convinced that he was going to kill her, too, because she’d heard rumors that she was sleeping with Elliott Benson. Knowing this, knowing that he’d already killed a girl because she’d supposedly cheated on him, she knew he would believe the rumors and try to kill her just like he did Melissa.
    “When she heard that I was going to marry him, then she heard the rumors that I was sleeping with Elliott Benson, she wrote that she didn’t want to see me end up dead, like Melissa, and God knows how many other women.”
    “Okay, Nick, something else must have happened to make you go to San Francisco and become homeless.”
    “Just before I got her letter, someone tried to run me down. A man with a ski mask over his head, driving a black car. It was dark and I was walking just one block from the neighborhood store back to my building.”
    Dane stiffened. “What,” he said, “were you doing out in the dark walking to the store? In Chicago? That’s really dumb, Nick.”
    She poked her finger in his chest. “All right, you want to know every little thing? Okay, it was my period, if it’s any of your business.”
    “Well, I can see that you wouldn’t want to wait. But, you should have had the store deliver.”
    It was so funny, really so unexpected, all this outrage over something so very insignificant, that she laughed. And laughed again. Here she was telling him about one of the most frightening experiences of her life—until a week ago—and he was all upset because she’d walked to her local store, by herself, in the dark.
    On the other hand, given what happened, maybe he had a point.
    She cleared her throat and said, “As I was saying, I was walking back when this car came out of a side street and very nearly got me. There was no way it was someone drunk or a stupid accident. No, I knew it was on purpose. Then there was his sister Albia’s birthday dinner. Supposedly it was food poisoning. It was really close. If I’d eaten more I would have died. The second I got that letter, I took off to his apartment to confront him about it.”
    “What happened?”
    “I waved the letter in his face, asked him how many women he’d killed. He denied everything, said the letter couldn’t be from Cleo, he just wouldn’t believe that, demanded that I give it to him. Then he came at me and I thought he was going to strangle me. He got the letter, shredded it, and threw it into the fire, then turned on me. I pulled my gun out and told him I was leaving. That night, I woke up because I heard someone in my condo. I saw this guy from the balcony, running away, and realized that he’d set my condo on fire. I got myself out in time, but it was too close. I got away with my purse and that was it. I ended up in a shelter. Since I’d lost everything, since I didn’t have a shred of proof, since I knew he’d try to kill me, just like he did Melissa, just like he’d wanted to kill Cleo, I decided being homeless wasn’t such a bad thing. Talk about disappearing—and it would give me time to figure out what to do. That’s how I ended up in San Francisco, how I just happened to be waiting in the church for Father Michael Joseph.”
    “So you went to San Francisco and just hid underground. You knew you couldn’t remain hidden there, Nick. What were you going to do?”
    “I hadn’t yet decided. Believe me, I