Billy Butcher's words echoes in your head.

It's all right fookin' there, mate. Right here. Rather you find out from a close confidant as 'posed to VNN, when they git-it.

You remember reading the small stack in the file he gave you. It's like he'd given you your entire world at your fingertips. In hindsight, he sort of did. And he waited, even though you're a slow reader and you like to digest every little thing your eyes come across.

I suppose that I'm married to a very dangerous woman.

You had closed the file unceremoniously, and Billy left with one last thing to say.

I know you'll do the right thing, painta'.

You sit at the dining room table, nursing a barely touched glass of white wine. You haven't moved since Billy came and went. But you do move, however, when it hits eleven o'clock, and your wife opens the front door. You can hear the keys gently tinkling from the distance.

"Hey, babe, I'm home," Victoria calls from the living room, and her heels click, click, click against the hardwood as she walks. You glance down at the files, and then you look up to Victoria, whose seconds away from greeting you.

But she sees the documents on the table, neatly stacked, in front of you. Color drains from her beautiful face.