Eleventh Hour

been gone for three years, not a single word from her. There’s no reason she’d write to you, for God’s sake. As I recall she didn’t even like you. I think she was jealous of you because, truth be told, even back then I thought you were wonderful. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Cleo, loved her very much, but I thought you were bright and so very eager and enthusiastic.”
    She wasn’t about to go there. Yeah, she thought, she probably would have licked his shoes in those days, if he’d wanted her to. She said, “John, I could have dismissed this letter as a crank, but there was more.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “She included several pages from your journal.”
    “My journal? Why would she do that?”
    “She said she found it by accident one day in your library safe. She read it, read your confession about killing Melissa. It’s right here, John, in your handwriting. How many women have you killed?”
    He stood stiff as the fireplace poker, just three feet behind her, close enough to grab to protect herself if she needed to. He said slowly, his pupils dilated, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nicola. I have a journal, but writing something like that? What, as a joke? It’s absurd. No, wait. Did Albia put you up to this?”
    “Oh no, John, no joke. No Albia either. No, don’t come any closer to me. Not even a single step. You see this?” She waved three pieces of paper at him. “This is Cleo’s letter to me and two pages she copied from your journal. This is from the woman I knew when I first came to work for your reelection campaign, a woman I liked very much. When she left you, I believed, like the rest of the world, that you were devastated, but she tells me that she ran for her life. I remember how everyone felt so very sorry for you. No, stay back, John!”
    He never looked away from the pages she held. She saw he wanted those pages, wanted them badly. He said, “Yes, Cleo left me, you knew that, Nicola. If you’ll show me the letter, show me those ridiculous journal pages, I’ll be able to prove that it’s not even from Cleo. Really, that’s quite impossible.”
    “I don’t see why it’s impossible. And yes, actually, it is from Cleo. I know her handwriting. God knows I read enough of her memos when I was volunteering. She wrote that you not only tried to kill her—that’s the reason she ran, because of the journal—but you’re trying to kill me because you believe I’m sleeping with Elliott Benson.
    “Again, John, how many women have you killed?”
    “For God’s sake, Nicola. Somebody else wrote you that letter, someone who copied her handwriting, someone who hates me, wants to destroy us. Someone made up those journal pages. Don’t let that happen, Nicola. Let me see that letter. Give it to me.”
    Nicola took a step back. She was nearly against the fireplace now. She felt the heat of the flames against her back. She said, “Cleo wrote that she doesn’t want me to die. She wrote that I should run, just like she did. She didn’t want to die either.”
    “This is utterly ridiculous.” He looked dazed, as if he couldn’t quite grasp what she was saying, and all through it, he was staring at those pages in her hand. “Let me see that goddamned letter.”
    “No, you’ll destroy it and the journal pages. I can’t allow you to do that.”
    “All right, all right. Listen to me. I didn’t kill anyone—not my mother, not Melissa, not anyone. That’s just insane.” Still he stared at those sheets of paper, his pupils sharp black points of light, his face as white as his beautifully laundered shirt. “You’ve got to let me see that letter. It can’t be from Cleo. She loved me, she wouldn’t say such things.”
    “She left because you wanted to kill her and because she realized you were insane with jealousy. You believed she was unfaithful to you.”
    “She left me to be with Tod Gambol, everyone knows that. Listen, Nicola, let’s sit down and talk this over. We can start at the beginning. We can work it all out. I love you.”
    “I’m going to the police, John. I suppose I wanted to confront you with the letter, hear what you had to say. I really hoped that I’d believe you—”
    “Dammit, then listen to me,” he said, but still he was staring at that letter. “Give me a chance. I had nothing to do with my mother’s death. I was sixteen years old, for God’s sake. She was an alcoholic, Nicola, and the decision at the time