When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

suddenly been turned on its ear. She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the headrest, waiting for the tears to come. Instead, her head filled with images—a ghost-white face caved in on one side, violet eyes staring at nothing. Who was she? But she was too numb to ponder that question right now, too sick and too weary to wade through scenarios that all seemed to point to the same terrible conclusion. Exhausted, she dragged her purse from the passenger seat and slid from behind the wheel. There was a moment of disorientation as she stepped into the kitchen, as if she had accidentally wandered into someone else’s home. She was used to the house being empty. For the last few years, Stephen had rarely been home for more than a week at a stretch. There was always somewhere he needed to be, another book tour, lecture, or talk show appearance. But this emptiness felt different. As if with Stephen gone, the house had lost some of its life force. But then, it had always been Stephen’s house. He’d become obsessed with the idea of living in the house Warner Brothers had used to shoot the ending of Victim’s Rights, his third novel and the first in a series of grittier-than-life box office smashes—so obsessed that he’d made an offer on the place without bothering to consult her. That had been four years ago, about the time she started to realize what a small role she actually played in her own marriage. She collapsed onto the sofa and unwound her scarf. The sun would be...