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After they married, he told her "There is just one rule. You must never open my mail."
But why not? And what did he do with it? What did he do with his mail, down in the basement with the strange machines? Was he getting drugs, counterfeit currency, child pornography? She thought she could forgive him anything. But she had to know. What, after all, did she really know about this most secretive of men, a man who seemed to have neither friends nor family?
On the first day of the fifth year of their marriage, his car was hit by a truck, and he ended up in hospital under observation for suspected concussion. The mail came as usual. As sometimes happened, one item was a package. Bulky. Heavy.
"He's not hear," she said. "It makes a difference. I have a duty."
And opened the heavy package, and was thrown back, and briefly tried to name the redness in the darkness, then died, blown apart by the bomb.
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