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crashing my words together.
    “Why didn’t I…answer…what? Your husband sent me an e-mail?” My conscience pangs into guilty and my worry level shoots into the red zone. Could I have missed his letter? “I don’t remember seeing it,” I insist, trying to sound reassuring. I’m all too aware the black hole of my voluminous e-mail could have sucked the letter into oblivion. Or our constantly crashing system simply ate it. “You’re sure—?”
    “I’m sure, Charlie, very sure. In fact, I thought it was why you came this morning. To ask about it.”
    I’m confused. Off balance. Bradley Foreman is dead. And his wife thinks I ignored him.
    What’s making my search for equilibrium tougher, I’m feeling sympathy instead of objectivity. I could say goodbye and thanks so much for the interview, leave and never see Melanie Foreman again. And that’s what I should do. TV reporting is like SWAT team duty. Get in, do your stuff, get out. Get too involved in someone’s life and—never fails—you get into trouble. Like I said, I’m very comfortable with temporary.
    But my heart breaks for this newly minted widow. She chose to stay home, be with her husband, probably wanted to start a family. Thought it was the right decision. Thenthe universe crushed her. Alone at thirtysomething. Been there, done that.
    At least I have a job. She has nothing left. No friends are here to comfort her. There are no flowers. No family.
    “Do you know why he e-mailed?” I ask. “What he wanted to tell me? Or since I’m the investigative reporter, maybe he wanted me to—investigate something?”
    Her life must feel so chaotic now. Maybe I can help her feel some closure.
    Melanie pushes up the sleeves of her thin black cashmere sweater, turns her watch around once, then again.
    “I just don’t know, Charlie, I really don’t.” Melanie shrugs, looks at the floor, then back at me. “Could you have—deleted his e-mail? Without reading it, maybe?”
    I desperately try to come up with some comforting response, but Melanie interrupts my escalating distress.
    “Oh well,” she says, almost whispering, “It doesn’t matter.”
    So much for helping. Melanie thinks I’ve dissed her husband, never bothered to answer his e-mail, and it appears she’s somehow blaming me for what happened. Although how could not answering an e-mail cause a car accident? I mentally stamp my foot. And then, suddenly, I’m saved.
    The terrier starts barking and bounds to the front door. We head for the entryway, and through the window, Melanie and I can see two big white vans, emblazoned with the logos of Channel 6 and Channel 13. Photographers, reporters, cameras and microphones disgorge into Melanie’s driveway. Doors slam, gravel crunches and soon a media parade is marching up the front walk.
    Melanie, her face evolving from surprise to panic, actually takes a step or two backward. She puts one handover her mouth and the other on the banister of the stairway to the second floor. She’s like a fair maiden, trapped in a castle that’s come under siege.
    I realize I can be her knight in shining armor and win the joust for my team at the same time.
    “You know, Melanie,” I say, hoping I’m successfully hiding my ulterior motives, “you don’t really have to talk with these people. Just go upstairs, and don’t answer the door. I’ll check for that e-mail as soon as I get back to the station and then I’ll call you.”
    She looks relieved. She looks grateful. She heads up the stairs.
    “By the way,” I call after her, “what’s his e-mail address?” Was his address, I don’t say.
    As the doorbell starts to ring, Melanie turns on the stairway to look at me again. “[email protected],” she says. “Call me if you find his e-mail.”
    I’m baffled. “Before?”
    “Like the letter B, then the number 4. B4.” She turns and begins to climb the stairs. “Like Bradley Foreman,” she says over her shoulder. And she’s gone.
    With that, this day