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Conclusion to the Paul and Paige story.

" We loved one another until we heard Catrina moving in her room. Looking at me, she said, "Billy, we have to talk!" But this time she had a smile on her face.

We had our talk, and a few weeks later I moved in with her. After a time I became a Portuguese citizen and adopted Catrina. I started working with her and her partner in her agency. I stopped doing translations and focused on writing romance novels and was almost too successful! I used a nom de plume, a name you would well recognize: a woman's name!

After a couple of years, we brought a nice apartment in Cascais, four or five blocks from the sea. We never again mentioned marriage, but frequently talked of our love. I was happy as never before!

My time of darkness, my time of death was over, I was alive!

The end.

Not!

SHIT HAPPENS!

Oh yeah! I bet you are wondering how I died! It seems a lifetime ago, some of the details I've forgotten. Some of the rage has left, some! I no longer think much about Sandra. She may or may not still be in prison. I don't really give a shit!

It wouldn't bother me if she were released. It wouldn't bother me if she rotted in jail. I've never cared enough to find out. I'm happy as long as the bitch stays out of my life.

What I remember most is the white-hot anger that overwhelmed me when I saw the email messages. I wasn't looking for them. I wasn't concerned about anything. I had a happy marriage.

Somehow I got a virus on the PC and had to reinstall some of the applications. The biggest problem seemed to be the email system. Before I uninstalled it I copied the email archive file to a Zip disk and then reinstalled the email software. In doing this, I of course wiped out any existing passwords, so it was left with the blank, default password. I made a mental note to let Sandra know what I'd done.

I installed the software and reloaded the email archive. I decided I'd better check and make sure everything was working - everything else seemed to be okay now, so it seemed this would fix the problem. My email came up okay, great so far. I pondered for a minute and decided I'd better check Sandra's email also. She gets real bitchy when the computer doesn't work right!

The way the blank password works is that you have to change it before you can use the software for the first time. I figured I'd just reinstall the software again after I checked everything out. Otherwise she would bitch at me. So I entered a password and opened her email. And I started dying! The headers were certainly catchy. The dialog between this jerk Andrew and Sandra was hot! The pictures were even hotter! Hottest of all was my anger... a burning, vicious, killing anger! I couldn't breathe for a minute. I ran into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and heaved, trying to breathe. Suddenly I ran into the toilet area and really heaved! I felt like my guts were coming out.

I went into my office and poured a small glass of Oban and gulped it down. Then a bigger one. Then another one.

I finally calmed down. I stopped drinking. I started breathing. I started thinking. My anger had coalesced into a tight, hard ball where my heart used to be. It felt like a cancer, eating away, destroying me from the inside. It took years, and a beautiful four-year-old girl before this cancer in my heart started to dissolve!

Christ, I hated her! Christ, I hated him! I focused on my hate. "Let that keep me going," I resolved. I was smart. I had a good imagination.

My dad had always told me that when bad times come, "and they will" he said, "don't give in to your weaknesses, and stand on your strengths."

I never asked him what had happened to him that he felt he had to tell me this over and over, but by God I listened and I heard him. And I remembered.

My strength is my writing. I write novels. Sometimes I write crime novels, and/or detective and/or murder but always a mystery. I was successful. I was well known. I researched. I talked to cops. I talked to cons. I talked to judges, reporters, and victims. I knew a lot of people.

I met a con at the Colo

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