Emma was killed on a Tuesday, which meant it was Mr. Pinkham day. Actually she sort of liked Mr. Pinkham, or at least she felt sorry for him. Sometimes pity was a stronger pull for Emma than affection. Anyway, Mr. Pinkham. He was fifty-nine, wore custom-tailored dark suits that helped disguise his girth, smelled of cigarettes and hair spray, and boy, did he tip. On her last birthday he'd given her two hundred dollars in cash in a baby-blue Hallmark envelope that also contained a sentimental card. Mr. Pinkham was in banking and was obviously rich. In nearly eleven months of seeing him, she'd detected only one small kink. He liked her to daub herself between the legs with strawberry flavouring before he got down to business. Given some of the men she'd known, this was not a real kink at all.

One other thing about Mr. Pinkham: His wife was dying. Cervical cancer. Once, after he was finished and dressed and pouring himself a drink, he started telling Emma about the process of chemotherapy his wife was undergoing, and then he started crying so hard, he had to go into the bathroom and throw up. When he came out, he was still crying. She helped him over to the bed and held him and rocked him and kissed him tenderly on the cheek and forehead over and over again. Then Emma started crying. She wasn't even sure why. It was just that sometimes everything seemed so sad.

That Tuesday she was to meet him for shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue in the Gavindae Common, the Twin Cities' only real snotty shopping mall. You felt special just walking around the five levels-Burberrys, Pendleton, the San Francisco Music Box Company, and Anne Klein, they were all there-you didn't even have to buy anything. You just felt special.

It was nearing closing time. Mr. Pinkham had phoned to say that he'd had a long day at the bank and an even worse day at the hospital.