Have you ever sent off an e-mail or a letter that you wish you never wrote in the first place? A letter that was so regrettable that the thought of it makes you cringe, or an e-mail that found you shouting “No, No!” the moment you hit send?
Leslie Crosbie has such a problem, but she can’t let the truth be told, at least not immediately. She’s also committed murder. (What?)
Let’s start at the beginning. On a bright moonlit night on a quiet rubber plantation near Singapore, the hired planters are asleep in their huts when shots ring out nearby. A man staggers from the front door of the main house, clutching his chest, and a woman, in her dressing gown, her eyes wild, follows him, and empties the rest of the pistol into him; even after he’s collapsed on the stairs. The woman is Leslie Crosbie, wife of plantation owner Robert, and she shot her intruder in self-defense. Or did she? Her husband and her friends would defend her to the teeth. She couldn’t possibly murder someone in cold blood, not Leslie.











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