THE REST OF THE WEEK passed with insufferable slowness both on the murder and Abra rapprochement fronts. But at least, on the latter, Sunday finally arrived, and with it, Rafferty’s meeting with his estranged fiancée.
He spent the morning in an agony of anxiety and indecision. After nicking his chin with the razor and staunching the red flow with spit-dampened toilet paper, he went into his bedroom and stood in front of the wardrobe.
What to wear? Should he dress scruffily and try for the sympathy vote? Or should he dress smart and risk her thinking he was fine on his own? There again, he decided, Abra would be unimpressed if she thought he had made no effort. She'd think it showed he didn't care. She'd never been one to be impressed by self-pity, the oh-poor-me look would only earn her
