When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

glasses. He stood there blank faced, as if waiting for some signal. Connelly laid a hand on her arm. “Are you ready?” Christine nodded but couldn’t find her voice. His eyes slid to the attendant. “Go ahead, Ryan.” Without expression or fanfare, the attendant reached over to pull back the sheet. Christine braced herself as she forced her eyes to the body on the gurney, the waxy face a bloodless blue white, slack in death but eerily unmarred. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, and his top shirt buttons were open, his tie loose and askew. Yes, it was him. Had his face been a ruin she would still have known him. There was no mistaking the Robert Mitchum–style cleft in his chin. And yet there was a jarring strangeness too. The movie star good looks were flaccid now and slightly bloated, leaving behind only a blank husk of the man she’d married eight years ago. The iconic charm and carefully polished charisma that had made Stephen Ludlow an international media darling had been extinguished. “Yes,” she said hoarsely, then cleared her throat. “Yes, it’s Stephen.” She was relieved when the attendant dragged the sheet back into place, but angled her body away from the gurney just the same. “What happens now?” “The ME will determine cause of death,” Connelly explained. “Though with the icy condition of the bridge, I think we can safely assume the crash will be ruled an accident, death caused by either trauma from the crash itself or by drowning.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “I’m...