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Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. “I want to have no distractions. Their flitting hands were always touching. She would take the items with her; bury the items and her bloodstained clothes in one of the many sinkholes in the huge landfill/garbage dump on the south side of town. But we were both pledged to secrecy, and I couldn’t reveal my part for fear that I would lose my place. Get on with it, then. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. My will is executed, and placed in safe custody.

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