When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

husband’s car the night he died and were they involved sexually?” A momentary hush fell as the mob waited for a response. When none came, the questions resumed. “Can you comment on the fact that she wasn’t wearing any clothes when they pulled her from the car?” “The police are still referring to the woman as Jane Doe. Can you tell us her name?” “Do you know how long the relationship had been going on?” “Have there been other women, or was she the first?” Christine nearly wept as her house key slid home. By the time she pushed inside and shot the deadbolt, she was gulping back tears. She had no idea how long she stood there, too shaken to make her legs move, but suddenly she knew she was going to be sick. Panicked, she dropped her purse and scrambled for the kitchen where she retched over the sink until she was limp-limbed and quaking all over. She’d never been comfortable in crowds, but a mob of reporters hurling questions about her dead husband’s mistress was an entirely new level of discomfort. After splashing her face and pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she wandered back to the living room, careful to steer clear of the windows. Her purse was still on the floor. She bent to pick it up, then froze when she spotted a rumpled copy of the Examiner inside, no doubt the work of one of the reporters in the scrum. Her hands trembled as she smoothed out the wrinkles. The photo had clearly been taken at the morgue. But by whom? And how had it ended up on the fron...