" I have no idea," I honestly replied. "Men," she exasperated.As always the day progressed as normal. There were no furtive texts, no hushed phone cal...s, nothing. She even wore nothing but a pair of jeans and a spectactularly unsexy top. No slinky, sexy gear, no spare bag full of lingerie, nothing but her small handbag and what she was wearing.Her hair was simply tied back and she wore the barest amount of makeup. Less, in fact, that she would wear to work.Now the next thing that I did does. Wallow in it for all I care.’ at that, she grabbed her coat and left, slamming the door behind her. I looked at the door as I sank down onto the floor, screaming and crying, finally letting all that pent up pain release like a thunderstorm. I fell asleep crying that night. *** I rose to the sun breaking through the darkness of my flat. Getting up off the floor, I rubbed my eye, noting how sore it was. As I walked through my flat, I replayed last night in my head. Did I really say those. Fate (or my subconscious) took me to the room in which I'd found Gillespie last Monday. Only a bit tardy. The hall clock informed me that it was now 10:27 (it had been 9:55 on Monday). In some way it seemed appropriate that I should burrow through the residue of Gillespie's life in the place where he had met his death. So I went into the empty room and deposited my books and papers on the still-mismatched tables. I refrained from occupying the "siege perilous."Only a few moments after I settled. He was a smallish, gray-haired man with a light gray beard. He was in good physical shape, and looked a lot younger to me than his 56 years.His son, Roald, emerged from their RV and shook my hand. Roald, Ingmar had told us, was 31. He, too, looked a bit younger than that, and he was taller and stronger-appearing than his father. But both men, to my considerable relief, appeared to be solid-citizen types."Here's Uncle Harry," Ingmar announced, and an elderly fellow gingerly climbed down the.
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