“I just want to know the truth, Mrs Voss,” said Rathe.
“For your friend?” It was a sneer.
“For myself.” It was a rebuke.
She considered him for a moment, the only sound the gentle tinkle of ice against glass as she swirled her drink. She kept her eyes on him but gave a slight nod of her head. “What do you want to know?”
“What sort of man was your husband?” It seemed to Rathe to be as pertinent a question as any other.
A sadness crept into Shelly’s eyes, replacing the hard scorn, albeit only briefly. “When I first met him, he wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met. He wasn’t attractive, not looks-wise. He was always thin, a real bag of bones, and he wasn’t full of brains either. But he was funny, with a knack for a quick one-liner. He was quiet in those days, used to let Mack do all the
