He had watched them for weeks . Prosperous, self-satisfied David Neale and his wife, Anna, so sweet, so gentle. He had tracked them through the streets of Dublin. And thought of the times that had been and the times to come . . . Now David's body lies stiff and cold on the floor. Anna gazes with disbelief at the marks on the skin. Killed by the sting of a bee to which he had always been allergic. A tragic accident or a brutal, calculated, callous murder?
Who can answer her questions? And now nothing about her life with David is the way it seemed. There are debts to be paid, infidelities to be faced. Anna is alone, defenceless, vulnerable. Which is, after all, exactly what the man who calls himself Matthew has always wanted.
He would watch and wait. And when he was ready he would bring her his gift . . . his courtship gift. Death and betrayal, woven together in a shroud of silk . . .
