Martha Greenwood. Hmm… Is probably a blonde. A dyed blonde. Forty-five years old. Fitness club, half an hour on the treadmill. Then, the shower—melting strips of foam slide down her stomach and legs, still aching from the pleasant fatigue after half hour training sessions. Then a soft towel. A white ball of deodorant dives into the armpits of raised arms. Panties from Victoria’s Secret, t-shirt. Then café, a vegetable salad and a fruit smoothie. Nothing salty, nothing too high-calorie. Forty-five years old. Be careful. Everything is good, but where is he? Where is that lover for whom you’re putting in all this effort? Where to find him?

Robert imagined Mrs. Martha’s whole life, while among other papers he was looking for one that would fully explain, once and for all, why Mrs. Martha began to suddenly go all out.

Yes, here are the monthly deductions for the newly-acquired life insurance for Mr. James Greenwood. How did she manage to insure his life?  Either old man James is not doing too bad, or she is so cunning that she was able to cheat the insurance agency. Probably the latter. If she started to frivolously spend money, then she doesn’t count on poor James being around for much longer.

Turning the pen in his fingers, Robert’s eyes lingered on the drawing: James and Martha, both in their so-to-speak “natural” outfits. Without hesitation, he drew a bracketed hole at James’s feet, crowning it with a cross. To the grave, then.

He wanted to add to Martha’s figure, but for some reason his hand trembled. Strange visions of an imaginary Martha—in the fitness club, in the shower, in a cafe—flashed once more in front of him with such clarity that Robert even imagined that he was touching this woman. He wanted to see her, or hear her voice. Moreover, he had a reason to call the Greenwoods.

“Hello, Mr. James Greenwood?”

“Yes, it’s me,” answered a dry, hoarse man’s voice on the line.