My clients usually have hopes. When one contacts a detective, they have certain expectations, an anticipation of resolution to their problems. The young woman sitting in front of me this morning, however, appeared devoid of emotion, resigned to her fate. Twenty-two, I thought, twenty-three at most. Pretty. Well dressed, with a cultured accent.
“I was married three times already,” she began. “The first was when I turned eighteen, as custom dictates. We were engaged since I was a child and he was just a young army cadet. A political alliance between our families. We were married in the old style, conferratio, as befitting our families. He was just elected as a quaestor and was assigned to the army of that year’s consul. He left on campaign right after our wedding, and never came back. Died en route from dysentery.
“I was again married a year later. …