By Tim Bloodfield
This story that I am writing I have kept secret for thirty years. I put it in my will that upon my death my wife would get this letter. Please forgive me, my love, but it was for your own good. Now many years have passed and I am dead so it is okay to tell you what happened the time I was out all night. I know you had your suspicions—you thought that I had cheated on you—well my love, it was a lot worse than that. I did not cheat on you that night. I love you and would never hurt you that way. Now I will tell you what happened that February 12, 1985.