She had not told Doug about seeing the mailman last night, nor about her nightmare afterward, although she was not sure why. It was not like her to be secretive, to keep things from him. They’d always had a close, honest relationship, had always confided in each other, shared their hopes, fears, thoughts, opinions. But for some reason, she could not bring herself to talk to him about the mailman. She had made excuses, rationalized, tried to convince herself, and all of her excuses sounded logical, reasonable—Billy was awake and listening, Doug had left too early and she’d had no time to talk to him—but the truth was that she didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to tell him what had happened. She had never felt that way before, had never experienced anything like it, and it scared her more than she was willing to admit.

Doug had not picked up the mail this morning before he left, and she’d been too afraid to go out to the mailbox and retrieve it herself, so she’d sent Billy out to get it, watching him from the porch to make sure he was all right. He came back with three letters: two for Doug, one for her. The letter was sitting next to her right now, on the small table on which she’d put her iced tea. She hadn’t wanted to open it right away, though it was from Howard and she had no real apprehension about its contents, and she’d set it aside until she felt like looking at it. Now she picked it up, tearing open the envelope. The letter was addressed to her, but the first line of the message read, “Dear Ellen.” She frowned. That was strange. But then Howard had been under a lot of stress lately, a lot had happened to him. It was bound to show up in some way or other. She continued reading:

Dear Ellen,

Sorry I couldn’t come by Saturday night, but I was forced into dinner at the Albins’. What a horrible time. The food was awful, the kid was a brat, and Albin and his wife were as boring as ever. That phony bitch Tritia…