“In moments everything that had been so right went wrong. I remember sinking to my knees in the sand, putting my hands under my man’s head, trying to lift his face to mine with some misguided thought of breathing life back into his lifeless mouth. A group rapidly surrounded us, silent, shocked. “She shot him,” I heard someone say. “She shot the woman, then she shot him And isn’t she Jerusha? And isn’t he Walter Matthews? Iron Man Matthews? Oh my God,” I heard them saying, the words sounding as t...hough they were in capital letters. And then, “Call the gendarmes immediately,” they cried. Police sirens wailed as half a dozen cars, blue lights flashing, screeched onto the beach. What seemed like a dozen uniformed men spilled out. Two of them pried me off my dead lover. Others checked the body of the woman I had shot. “She shot him,” I heard people saying. “But she shot the woman first. He’d gone to help her.” Jerusha was jealous. He’d been having an affair; the woman was known in the local cafés and bars and she’d told everybody about her famous lover.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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