.
orley Munson sat alone in the conservatory of his family home, staring at all the dead (and/or withering) plants around him. This had once been his mother’s joy, this room
of windows and light. Morley Munson, however, did not have a green thumb and following the death of his parents he and his then-wife had slowly let the place go
to seed (especially once she became ill).
Morley Munson had begun to dodge the (endless) calls of Constance Freeman as he tried to figure out his next move. The phone was ringing in the hallway, in fact, but he
didn’t get out of his wrought-iron chair
to answer it. He realized that it was only
a matter of time until he needed to do something but for the life of him he couldn’t decide what. If he had his own way, Morley Munson would surely stop the killing (for a few months at least) and allow events to unfold in a more natural fashion. It seemed like a good time to back away from the carnage but Morley Munson knew that Constance Freeman would never allow it.
Morley Munson was absently pulling the wings off a butterfly that had landed on his arm when the doorbell rang. Surprised, he
dropped the still-fluttering body of the insect and moved cautiously to the front door — it was a huge wooden contraption with no modern peephole to help him at this moment. Morley Munson thought about the possibilities and quietly panicked: it could be the police or Constance Freeman or his wife (back from the dead). Anyone. The ‘wife’ idea was a bit far-fetched but in his frenzied state, he felt as if anything was possible.
Morley Munson took a shallow breath and pulled open the door. He stood face to face with Constance Freeman’s husband.
Chapter 18 — The Hospital.Chapter 20 — The Lie
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