Ah, but the cyanide pill. It was his grandest plan ever. He wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and straightened, contemplating the details of his new plan. Had Greta left anything in the medicine cabinet? Sleeping pills? What about the garage, in that damned car? He lowered his head to his folded arms again, considered his options.
He was awakened by the sound of the doorbell.
As everything came back to him all at once, his first reaction was paranoia. The press. Reporters and photographers. They had scaled the gate, and they were coming for him, coming to mock him.
"Go away," he shouted.
But instead of leaving him alone, they resorted to pounding, screaming his name. They rang again, more pounding.
He called for Marie and ordered her to send them away. The housekeeper came back a moment later and told him who it was at the door.
He grabbed the ring and leaped up from his chair, tears finally coming as he staggered down the foyer.
He twisted the lock and swung open the door.
And there she stood. A sobbing Greta, wearing, he noticed at once and unmistakably, the very gloves he had bought for Laurence. Pigskin, and fit for a queen. His queen.
Yes, she was wearing them now, and didn't that then mean that he had bought them for her, really? That they belonged together?