Gail’s husband of forty-two years had recently died. He had been a prominent lawyer in the city where they lived. Gail had never warmed much to the city, but her late husband was born and bred there, and his roots firmly and permanently placed them continuing to live there. Over the years the standard of living in their suburb had plummeted. It was now riddled with thieves and pimps, and homelessness was commonplace. Over Gail’s forty-two years of living in that suburb there had been roughly about the same number of murders. It came down to a murder a year. Disgraceful, and a little terrifying.
“At last you will be able to move away from that wretched hell-hole,” wrote one of Gail’s friends. Other friends agreed and voiced as much.
But Gail was adamant. She was staying put. “There may have been forty or so unexplained murders over the years,” said Gail, “but I’m pretty sure there won’t be any more.”