When Diane finally left the precinct house after a long day of routine work, it was dark outside. Her neck was throbbing with a dull ache that she had been able to subdue with aspirin. The pain became more intense, and Diane winced when she slipped her arms into her coat. She bounded down the stairs and walked quickly to exit the building, checking to her left and right as she descended to the street. As she looked right, from the corner of her eye, she saw a man with black hair and a raincoat pacing to and fro, sticking a mint in his mouth. She gasped and jerked her head to the right again. A large black crow was sitting on the banister of a nearby building, and as Diane spun around to face it, it cawed and leapt skyward.

Diane put her hand to her throat and breathed, trying to slow her racing pulse.

Half an hour later, Diane was in her apartment, tossing her keys and handbag on the table, locking the door behind her. She turned and walked over to her writing desk. She pulled on the antique handle and slid the center drawer open. Inside, she saw the telltale red, white and blue logo of CitiWide Couriers, her name in Harry Denby�s handwriting on the front of the envelope. Diane ran her fingers over the letters, as if she could feel the imprint of his hand on the paper.

The smell of stale scotch whiskey filled her nostrils, and Diane started to cry, remembering how his fingers tickling her hand that first night sent excited shivers all over her body. Before she knew him. Ages before he made her keep her promise to kill him. Now he was haunting her, still tormenting her from beyond the grave. She wondered if there would be any memorial service for him, and if so, who in God�s name would attend. She wanted to kick herself for caring that much about him. She slammed the desk drawer closed again.

�Damn you, Harry Denby.�