THREEHONEY WAS GETTING READY for bed when she heard someone knocking on her front door. It was after 9 p.m., but it could still be another reporter. In the three days since the story broke, she had been approached by all kinds of media people. The story had struck a vibrant chord in the romantic soul of the heartland. Even The Chicago Tribune dispatched a reporter to get the inside story of the elderly lovebirds in trouble with the law. Ignoring the advice of legal counsel, Honey had let the Tribune reporter in to proclaim her innocence and her undying love for Leonard.
As the knocking on her door continued, she knew it wasn’t a reporter. That knock was more than familiar. That was a “shave and a hair cut, two bits” knock. She knew who was on the other side of her door before she unlocked
