Jake was dying. His wife, Becky, was maintaining a candlelight vigil by his side. She held his fragile hand, tears running down her face. Her praying roused him from his slumber. He looked up and his pale lips began to move slightly. "Becky my darling," he whispered. "Hush my love," she said. "Rest, don't talk." He was insistent. "Becky," he said in his tired voice, "I have something that I must confess." "There's nothing to confess," replied the weeping Becky, "everything's allright, go to sleep." "No, no. I must die in peace, Becky. I ....I slept with your sister, your best friend, her best friend and your mother!" "I know, my sweet one" whispered Becky, "let the poison work." /Peter
