He was completely spent, used up. Alone. There was no one for him
now. No one he could call on. William had informed him that
Laurence had arranged for a transfer to an ICP office in France.
And, effective immediately, Eileen, his former secretary, was
Byron Holmes's personal assistant.
And then there was Greta.
He opened his fist and looked at the gold object in his palm. It
rolled out of his hand onto the tabletop.
He twirled Greta's wedding band round and round with his
fingertip. On that awful day years ago, he had retrieved the ring
from the boat deck before kicking her severed finger into the
ocean. Unable to face the horror of what had happened to her, to
her hand, he had hidden the ring in his briefcase ever since.
She was the only person in the world who had ever truly supported
him, the only person who would know just what to say right now.
And she was gone. He had destroyed her, too, with his damnable,
selfish dream. A dream that had become a nightmare. One from
which there would be no waking. It was all over. Really and truly
through.
Ah, but the cyanide pill. It was his grandest plan ever. He wiped
his nose on his shirtsleeve and straightened, contemplating the
details of his new plan. Had Greta left anything in the medicine
cabinet? Sleeping pills? What about the garage, in that damned
car? He lowered his head to his folded arms again, considered his
options.
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