Mitz slowed, pulled to a stop in Jo-Anne’s lane-way and eyed the mailbox. It was stuffed. A sure indication that Jo-Anne had been holed-up all week. Mitz got out, shooed away the tree frog that had taken up permanent residence among the envelopes, pulled out an assortment of papers and flyers and took them with her up to the cottage.

In high heels, she scooted around the rotten board in Jo-Anne’s porch, rapped once on the screen door and let herself in. Jo-Anne Wiley stood, fists knotted on hips, in front of the propane stove and, with a belligerent scowl, watched the battered aluminum coffee pot.

“I brought the mail,” Mitz said, dropping an arm load onto the center of the table.

“You wanna muffin with your coffee?”

Mitz placed her suit jacket across the back of a chair. “Not if it came from your fridge.”

Jo-Anne brought two mugs to the table and pulled out a chair. “What’s all this crap.”

“The mail gets delivered once a day, if you would only care to check.”

Jo-Anne started dividing the pile, bills pushed to one side.

“Mmm, what’s this?” She pulled a large brown envelope from under the heap.

Mitz looked across at the return address. “Trojan Publishing. You sell a magazine article?”

“Not that I remember,” Jo-Anne replied, sliding a slender finger under the flap. She reached in and pulled out a smaller envelope and peered inside.

“What is it?”

“A check. For a hundred bucks.”

“See? You did sell a story.”

Jo-Anne shook her head and thrust a hand back into the brown envelope. She pulled out a thin, cheaply printed magazine wrapped in a cellophane sleeve. “Oh geez, no...” She held a copy of Neighborhood Tits magazine, the cover featuring a local stripper with volleyball-sized boobs– in full motion, no less. Jo-Anne tore open the plastic and began flipping the pages. “No. He wouldn’t have...”

“Who wouldn’t have?”

Jo-Anne stopped mid flip and tossed down the tasteless publication. “Damn it.”

Mitz reached for the open magazine, twisted it so she could see and laughed. “Oh-ho. Jo-Anne. You randy little bitch.” Mitz was looking at a full page photograph of Jo-Anne, walking barefoot along a stretch of deserted beach. She wore cargo pants and had her shirt slung over a shoulder. Her pale tits were tipped in brown and, Mitz thought, she looked quite delicious.

Mitz lifted her chin. “I repeat my question. Who?”

“I don’t remember his name.” Jo-Anne held her head in her hands. “It was nothing. Really. I was sitting at the bar, downstairs at the Crab Trap, uploading cover photographs to my publisher when he noticed what was on the screen. He was only seventeen and taking Photography at the College. We started talking.”