A few other tidbits were added. Enough to make me wonder why I was being sent alone. Or why I was being sent at all. And I was shooed off.Not knowing ...any better, I entered the bar that Mr. Jacobson frequented and was last reported being in.Picture this: a six-three white man in a white shirt, gray tie and gray slacks with short, side-parted hair, enters a Hispanic bar at quarter after five on the south side of Chicago... And it’s not the beginning of a joke... Thankfully, the patrons ignored. We continued in silence for some time. I worked diligently on myembroidery and had almost finished it when the doorbell chimed. My heartbegan to pound at the sound, and my face began to feel flushed."Melissa, please see who is at the door."I got up slowly and set aside my work. I straightened out my pinaforeand the bow at the back of my skirt and made my way to the front door.My ears were burning and my breathing began to quicken. Why was mygoverness forcing me to do this? As I made my way. I smiled to myself for a moment. Then the memories of all the events started crowding back at me and I grunted in anger. I clearly remembered the cop had deliberately pulled his gun and shot me. It felt like a horse kicked me in the chest. Then I remembered losing consciousness as I fell into a dark pit.Her eyes flew open and she screamed, "John, ohmigod John. You're awake! You're alive. Oh I was so frightened you were going to die. Oh John." She got up and rushed over to the bed and started to. At about 6.30 I left and arrived at the hotel about twenty minutes later. I looked in the bar but there was no sign of Claire, so I went to reception and asked them to let her know I was here.“Sir, Mrs Roberts asked if you can go up to room 307. She’s running a little late,” said the receptionist.After a brief explanation of how to find her room and a quick trip up in the elevator, I knocked on the door to be greeted by Claire in a bathrobe and a towel on her hair.“I’m really sorry John,” she.