There are times when Judith Lassiter feels content, perhaps even happy. She is content to be married to a well-heeled architect who graciously remembers their fifteenth anniversary with fifteen red roses. She is content with Green Diamonds, the house her husband designed, the envy of their acquaintances. She is content with her life in the town of Wyfleet, content with her financial status, even content with her appearance. Then why does Judith write herself imaginary love letters in the solitude of her bedroom? Why does she take on a very real lover several years her junior? Why does she believe she can redeem her life only by taking another's, employing the unlady-like recourse of a professional hit man?