Refusing to take questions, he scurried back into the maze of the Kruger-Brent headquarters like a distressed beetle searching for the safety of its nest. Nothing had been heard from him since.

Undeterred by the lack of official information, perhaps even encouraged by it, the tabloids felt free to start making the story up themselves. Soon the rumor mill had taken on a life of its own. But by then it was too late for the family or anyone else to stop it.

“We must do something about these press reports.”

Peter Templeton was in his study at home. With its tatty Persian rugs, antique Victorian upright piano, walnut paneling, and bookcases crammed to bursting with first editions, it had been one of Alex’s favorite rooms, a place to retreat to after the stresses of the day. Now Peter paced it furiously like a caged tiger, shaking the newspaper in his hands.

“I mean this is the New York Times, for God’s sake, not some supermarket rag.” The disdain in his voice was palpable as he read aloud: “‘Alexandra Alexandra Blackwell is believed to have been suffering from complications of the immune system for some time.’ Believed by whom? Where do they get this nonsense?”

Dr. Barnabus Hunt, a fat Santa Claus of a man with a crown of white hair around his bald spot and permanently ruddy cheeks, took a contemplative draw on his pipe. A fellow psychiatrist, and Peter Templeton’s lifelong friend, he had been a frequent visitor to the house since Alex’s death.

“Does it matter where they get it? You know my advice, Peter. Don’t read this rubbish. Rise above it.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Barney. But what about Robbie? He’s hearing this kind of poison day and night, poor kid.”

It was the first time in weeks that Peter had expressed concern for his son’s feelings. Barney Hunt thought: That’s a good sign.

“As if his mother were some kind of prostitute,” Peter raged on, “or a homosexual or a…a drug addict! I mean, anyone less likely to have AIDS than Alexandra…”