The police report cites your husband's "accidental drowning." Your lawyer calls it "perfect timing." The midday sun is blazing and the tires of your Karmann Ghia convertible screech around the curves of the Costa Smeralda. You promised to mourn, so you're wearing all black: but it's Halston silk.

Close-up on your red nails gripping the walnut steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, not a trace of regret, just the glittering Mediterranean. You pull up to the entrance of the Cala di Volpe and grab the key to your suite. Inside, the shutters are drawn, the bath is already running, and a cigarette you didn't light is slowly burning in the crystal ashtray.

Death is an end, but the inheritance is a hell of a beginning.