I stare, hypnotized, at the pistol on the table in front of me. I have no idea what it’s doing there. It’s the sort of Smith and Wesson with a wooden grip you sometimes see in old Westerns. The cylinder is full—five .38-caliber bullets. I pick up the gun, gauge its weight. The gun is calling to me. A swift and sure solution to all my problems. In the short term, I find the prospect of death comforting. Gone would be the nearly fifty years of a strange marriage spent living with an unknowable woman who claimed that she loved me in her own way, which in truth meant that she didn’t love me.

The truth is that Annabelle tolerated me, and, all things considered, it was better than nothing. Living with her was painful, but living without her would have killed me. We had our little private arrangement whereby, in the eyes of the world, I was the philandering husband—which I was—and that shielded her from gossip. Nothing and no one had a hold over Annabelle. She defied all classification, all norms, all proprieties. It was her freedom that fascinated me. After all, surely what we love in another is the mystery? I loved her, but her heart was not to be won. I loved her, but I was unable to protect her.

I press the barrel of the Chief’s Special to my temple and suddenly, I can breathe more easily. I would love to know who put this pistol here for me to find. Thomas, maybe? The son who is not my son. This child who, like his mother, never loved me. I shut my eyes and I see his face in a dozen precise memories from when he was little. Images tinged with wonder and with pain. Wonder at this boy who was intelligent, curious, and a little too wise; pain because I knew that I was not the father.

Squeeze the trigger if you’re man enough.

In the end, it is not fear that makes me stop. It’s Mozart. The three-note figure for harp and oboe that alerts me whenever Annabelle sends me a text message. I flinch. I put the gun down and dive for my phone. Richard, you have mail. A.

The message was sent just now from Annabelle’s phone. Only that’s impossible because Annabelle is dead, and besides, she left her cell phone here. The only explanation is that she set a timer to send the message before she died.

Richard, you have mail. A.