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    Mrs. Stitt shook her head in stubborn denial. “It was already opened up—and that letter on top, too. And besides——” Hesitating she glanced back, almost furtively, toward the open doorway.
    “Besides——?” Blanche prompted.
    Reaching again into the wide pocket of her apron, Mrs. Stitt produced a large brown Manila envelope. After a moment’s hesitation, she held it out.
    “You—you might as well see this, I guess…”
    Blanche took the envelope. In the upper left hand corner was the insignia and name of the television station. At the center was a white sticker upon which had been typed her name and address. Other than that it seemed entirely unremarkable.
    “The other side,” Mrs. Stitt said thinly, looking away. “Over.”
    With a faint chill of apprehension, Blanche turned the envelope.
    The word seemed to leap up at her like a shouted epithet, angry, ugly, obscene, scrawled in strokes so vicious that in several places the point of the pencil had bitten into the thick stuff of the envelope and torn it. Turning the envelope back, Blanche pressed it quickly down into her lap as if in an attempt to crush the word out of existence. Looking down at her, Mrs. Stitt drew her hands stiffly across the front of her apron.
    “I’m sorry.” Her voice was contrite now, but still unsteady. “I guess I shouldn’t have shown you. Lord knows I hate to be a trouble maker, but——”
    Blanche raised a hand. “It’s all right.” Her gaze slid inadvertently toward the open doorway. “I don’t really think——”
    Abruptly, Mrs. Stitt held out her hand. “Here, I’ll take that and get rid of it.” Retrieving the envelope from Blanche’s lap, she folded it deftly over upon itself and jammed it into her pocket. “Miss Blanche,” she said, her voice quiet with concern, “I know this isn’t anything much to get worked up about. But it’s not a normal thing for someone to do—not for a person her age—and with her starting to act up again.…”
    Blanche looked down, shielding her eyes from Mrs. Stitt’s gaze, afraid she might reveal the fear that had suddenly come alive inside her. Jane is my sister, she told herself sternly, she has taken care of me and stayed with me and protected me all these years. The least I can do is try to understand. She’s my own sister.…
    She may be your own sister, honey, your own flesh and blood, but you’ve got to face it, deep down inside she hates you like poison and nothing would please her more than to see you get it right in the neck.
    The words echoed suddenly into her mind from far, far back in the past. It was Martin Stagg who had said them to her. She had been working on a picture, and he had called her into his office…
    I know, it’s a hard thing to admit to yourself, but Janie’s so crazy with jealousy she doesn’t know what she’s doing.
    Marty had been the producer of the picture, a big, bluff man with a large, knowing heart and an uncanny instinct for picture making and its people. When one of Marty’s performers was in trouble, he was always anxious to understand and help.
    Why do you think she pulls these drunks all the time—and going out and making a show of herself in public? Look how many times, just this last year, she’s got herself tossed in the can. Four, five times? Five. Next time, maybe the boys won’t get there fast enough to hush it up. And whose career is it going to reflect on? Hers? Hell, no, her career was washed up before she was even twelve years old. You’re the one who’s going to take the rap. And will she be sorry? Look—why does she have all those tantrums on the set and hold up shooting? Why is she always so sick every time Publicity sets up a personal for you, and you have to stay home and take care of her?
    And don’t think I’m not sympathetic to the whole problem. She was a star, one of the real biggies, and in a tough racket, too. I give her credit. She probably kept your whole family