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Miller,” with the address.
    Faith paused and put the envelope down. “It’s hard to get prints from paper, but I think we should be careful anyway.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a clean dust cloth, which she used to hold the paper by one corner as she eased it out of the envelope.
    There was no doubt. It was venomous—a classic of its sort, the letters neatly cut from magazines and newspapers. Occasionally, the writer had been fortunate enough to find an entire word. A few of the pieces were colored type, producing a collage effect. But it was not a work of art.
    â€œC INDY” ’S NOT DEAD . S AM IS BETRAYING YOU . D ON’T TRUST YOUR HUSBAND .
    A FRIEND
    â€œI know one thing”—Pix had given her eyes one final swipe and was giving an award–winning performance of her old self—“whoever wrote this horrible letter is certainly not a friend. The idea!”
    Faith was staring at the letter.
    â€œIt really is strangely worded—‘A friend’…‘betraying.’ As if the person has some sort of quirky Victorian manual on how to write nasty letters—or watches a lot of daytime TV. And of course you don’t believe it,” Faith quickly reassured Pix.
    Sam Miller had, in fact, had one brief, disastrous affair during his particularly bumpy ride into middle age, but that had been several years ago. The young woman, Cindy, with whom Sam had chosen to dally had later ended up as a corpse in Aleford’s own historic belfry, discovered, in fact, by Faith. The suggestion of current adultery was horrible by itself. Bringing up the murder was particularly loathsome.
    â€œNot for a minute,” Pix said staunchly. “Still, I wish he was home.” Pix was incapable of lying. Coupled with her tendency to speak her mind, it often resulted in revealing self-confession. Faith did not have this problem.
    Tom sat down on Pix’s other side and took her hand. “There’s no question that Sam is totally devoted—and faithful—to you. But letters like this are intended to plant seeds of doubt. It’s only natural to want him right here. When will he be back?”
    â€œTomorrow night. But don’t worry. Of course I want to look him straight in the eye, but even more, I just want him home. Who would do this to us?”
    â€œThat’s what we should be talking about.” Faith thought it was time to get down to business. If they began to dwell too much on Sam, Pix would get weepy again and water those malicious seeds Tom had mentioned. “Do you have any idea at all?”
    Pix shook her head slowly. “I never thought I had any enemies. You know, Tom, when you preached that sermon, ‘Who Is My Enemy?’ I thought it was going to be about what we fight against in ourselves. Oh, I agreed with what you said, that we can become our enemy—the thief, the slanderer, now the poison-pen wielder—if we don’t forgive him, yet I truly can’t think of anyone who would want to harm me.”
    Faith had to agree. Pix was one of the best-liked people in Aleford and one of the few about whomFaith had never heard a negative word. It was astonishing. Still volunteering in all sorts of organizations her children had outgrown—Pix had only recently stepped down as head of the cookie drive for the Girl Scouts, even though Samantha’s uniform probably wouldn’t even fit over her head—Pix was the person Aleford called for help, ideas, and comfort. Which reminded Faith, who said, “I heard you were running St. Theresa’s blood drive this year? Are you switching pews?”
    â€œMy friend Martha Stanley was doing it, but you know she’s scheduled for a hip replacement and she couldn’t—”
    â€œFind anybody else.” Faith finished it up for her and they laughed. It was a welcome diversion.
    Tom moved them back on track. Although he’d been pleased that