Without looking up from her computer, she answered. "No. My real name. Why?"

Her response may have sounded relaxed, but it wasn't. Her radar had gone on alert, I could feel it.

"No reason. Just curious." I counted to ten silently. "So do you go by Patricia or Patty?"

I looked over at her. She was unmoving, still staring down at her computer, but now seeing nothing in front of her. And then slowly, tears began to form and she started to shake.

"How did you find out?" It came as a whisper. "Were you checking up on me? Didn't you trust me?"

She attempted for it to come out as an accusation, but it failed miserably, and she knew it.

"I was on Ancestry.com and I just did it for fun. But to answer your question, yes, I trusted you implicitly. Now I don't know what to believe."

"I was going to tell you, I promise I was." The tears were flowing freely now. She wasn't faking it. These tears were real.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I didn't want you to question my character. If you found out about me and my history, you would lump me in with Izzy, and I'm nothing like Izzy."

And then she broke down—a break-down like I had never seen before. Starting as almost hiccups, they quickly turned into sobs, sobs that seemed to emanate from the deepest part of her soul. At one point she couldn't catch her breath and began to hyperventilate. She was beginning to scare me. I went over and put my arms around her and helped her to the floor. She latched onto me the way she did in bed, as if I was all she had in the world. Suddenly, I could see that she was going to throw up. The waste basket was within reach, so I grabbed it and put it in front of her. Just in time. She threw up, while at the same time choking on her lack of breath. I tried to pull her hair back, but wasn't in time. The ends were caked in vomit. I had never seen an emotional reaction like this. Whatever was in there was ever so dark. I wasn't so sure I wanted to hear what was behind it. What could scar somebody so horribly as to leave them in this state?

We just sat there for what seemed like an hour—and maybe it was. When she was able to sit on her own, I extracted myself from her arms and went into the bathroom for a couple of wet face cloths. One, I gave her for her face. The other I used to gently wipe the vomit from her hair. Finally, she spoke. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, and had a distinct quaver. It dawned on me: it was fear—an all-consuming fear, like I had unearthed something that was better buried.

"I didn't divorce my husband. I killed him."

What could I say to that? So I said nothing.