One of the things I’d learned from my mother after I retired from deciphering codes was to select a day during the week that was for me alone, and for no reason in particular, I had chosen Monday. The rest of the week was for things that were expected of Portia Mann, the committee meetings and fund raisers, charities and luncheons, but on Mondays I practiced savate in the morning, spent the early part of the afternoon on the firing range, and then a few hours in the library with a retired professor, learning Farsi.
As for Gregor, he would accompany me, practicing when I practiced, shooting when I shot. Once he’d vetted the professor, he spent those hours at the library perusing forensic journals. Always he was with me.
He looked at me thoughtfully when we returned home that day. “You’re
