Greg was the one; Emily’s lover. He owned an antique shop out on the main road toward New York, and Emily filled a part of her days as his ill-paid assistant. I knew what they did together in the back of the shop on those long mid-week afternoons when there were no tourists, no antique collectors to disturb them. I knew, and I’d known for more than three years, but I had never decided how to deal with my knowledge. The fact was, I blamed myself, and therefore I had no way to behave if the ugly subject were ever to come into the open.
So I remained silent, but not content. I was discontent, unhappy, angry, resentful–truculent.
Also published as This Is Death in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Nov. 1978.