Detention would mean coming home late, which spelled distraction and trouble on the night of a kill. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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