The absolute worst photograph had been taken of her kissing a king-sized Tootsie Roll. At the time, the pictures had been meant to be funny, a silly joke on her career, for which she never ate anything that wasn’t baked, broiled, or tossed in zero-calorie dressing. Never ate anything fattening that wasn’t routinely purged from her body.

What the photographs hadn’t shown was the sickness that had begun right after she’d binged on all that junk food. The vicious cycle of guilt that always began after her total loss of control. The panic that she might have gained an ounce, which always sent her straight to the treadmill or the toilet.

It was a compulsion she now controlled, but at one time it had almost taken her life. Even now, every time she looked at the old images of her five-foot-eleven, one-hundred-and-ten-pound body, it triggered the voice in her head that told her she should skip lunch, or it urged her to visit the Colonel and order a bucket of chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a diet Coke.

Worse than the humiliation of those tacky pictures appearing on the Internet for the world to see was the knowledge that there wasn’t anything she could do about them. And she’d tried. She’d begged Sam to give her the photos and to removed them from the net. She’d offered him money, but even after all this time, he was still so bitter about their breakup, he’d refused. She’d hired an attorney and was told what she basically already knew. Sam owned the photographs and he could publish them wherever he liked. She’d taken him to court anyway, and she’d promptly lost.

Her only option now was to hire a hit man.