When Never Comes

by Barbara Davis

Monck’s Corner, South Carolina August 19, 1986 The room is dark but not quite still. A threadbare curtain breathes in and out at the window, shuddering in the sticky Carolina heat. Outside, the hum of night things fills up the quiet, a chorus of moist throats and raspy wings calling through the torn screen. In the bed beneath the window, a girl in a pink cotton nightgown writhes amid tangled sheets. She is a lovely child, raven-haired and pale, a fringe of sooty lashes lying uneasily against her cheeks. Her whimpers turn to tears, turn to wails, turn to shrieks. She is awake but not awake, flailing one moment, rigid the next, stalked by a terror she can neither see nor name. The dreams have come again, her almost nightly companions. But no one is coming to comfort her tonight. Mama has passed out again on the bathroom floor.

Clear Harbor, Maine November 19, 2016 The first ring came with the same throat-thickening panic all 2:00 a.m. phone calls produce. Disorientation. Dread. The certainty that something, somewhere, is terribly wrong. Christine shot up with a gasp, grabbing for the phone on the bedside table. “Hello?” “Mrs. Ludlow?” “Yes.” “Christine Ludlow?” “Yes. Who’s calling?” “Mrs. Ludlow, this is Sergeant Stanley with the Clear Harbor police. I apologize for the call, but we’ve been knocking for some time now. We need to speak with you.” Police? Her pulse ticked up a notch, the skin on the back of her neck prickling with the old familiar warning. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?” The voice on the other end of the phone was polite but strained. “We’d prefer to speak in person.”

A moment later, she was pulling back the front door, staring at two uniformed police officers. “What is it? Why are you here?” “I’m afraid it’s your husband, ma’am. There’s been an accident. His car skidded off a bridge and into Echo Bay.” Christine’s chest seemed to seize. “Where is he? Is he all right? What hospital have they taken him to?” “Your husband isn’t in the hospital, Mrs. Ludlow. He . . . didn’t survive the accident. I’m afraid we’re going to need a next of kin to come down and identify his body.” The silence spooled out as the words penetrated. Stephen’s body. Echo Bay. “We’d be happy to drive you,” the sergeant continued, his voice full of polite sympathy. It wasn’t his first time knocking on a door in the middle of the night, Christine realized dully. How many wives, mothers, lovers, and friends had gotten the visit she was getting now? It took a moment for the sergeant’s offer to penetrate. “No,” she replied, feeling strangely detached, as if watching the scene from a long way off. The last thing she wanted at that moment was a ride in the back of a police car. “Thank you. I can drive myself.” The sergeant nodded. “We’ll wait while you get dressed then, and you can follow us back to the station.” Christine nodded, trying to wrap her head around what had happened—and the reality of what came next. Bestselling crime novelist Stephen Ludlow was dead, and she needed to go identify his body. But first, she needed to get dressed.

Christine felt the ground tilt as she stepped into the lobby of the Clear Harbor Police Station. The scuffed black-and-white floor tiles, the unforgiving fluorescent glare, the nauseating aroma of burned coffee and stale cigarette smoke, reminded her queasily of another night—another calamity a lifetime ago. She shook it off. Deal with the calamity in front of you. If life had taught her anything, it had taught her that. Sergeant Stanley stepped away to speak to the officer at the front desk, then turned back with an awkward smile and pointed to a row of blue plastic chairs along the wall. “You can have a seat if you like. We’ve called to have someone escort you down.” Moments later, the stainless-steel elevator doors opened. Christine was startled to see a familiar figure step into the lobby. Daniel Connelly was—had been—a close friend of Stephen’s, a drinking companion and a regular at his Friday night card games. But he was a homicide detective, and Stephen had died in a car accident. What was he doing here at three in the morning? “Christine.” He took both her hands in his. They were hot and slightly sticky. “I’m so sorry. When they realized it was Stephen, they called me. They thought it might be easier if I was here to . . . explain things.” She frowned. Explain things? It was an odd way to put it, a cold, blunt way. She pulled her hands free, trying not to be

obvious as she wiped her palms on her jacket. “Thank you, Detective, for coming out at this hour.” “Please, call me Danny.” He was thickset and beefy, with full ruddy cheeks and a head of wiry gray hair. They hadn’t met more than a few times, and then only briefly, but she’d never been able to understand Stephen’s fondness for the man, beyond the fact that as a homicide detective he’d been an invaluable research contact, always happy to pass along juicy case details in exchange for a box of Cohiba cigars or a bottle of good single malt. “I guess we should get on with it,” he said grimly. “Are you ready?” Christine nodded. There really wasn’t another option when your husband’s body was lying on a gurney somewhere, waiting to be identified. She allowed Connelly to take her elbow and steer her toward the elevators, saying nothing as he pushed the button stamped with a well-worn B. The basement then. Stephen was in the basement. When the doors opened again, Connelly stepped out and turned left, leading her down a white-tiled hall lined with windowless blue doors. He stopped in front of the last door on the right and reached for the knob. A dull buzz filled Christine’s head as she stared at the engraved metal plate: MORGUE. Connelly threw her a glance. “You all right?” The words seemed to come from a long way off, as if they’d been spoken from the bottom of a very deep well. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real. And yet the look on Connelly’s face told her it was very r...

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. “Wh...

She blinked heavily at him. “No. I suppose not. Do I just go home now?” “There are papers you’ll need to sign. But we were wondering—” He paused to clear his throat, his eyes skittering away briefly. “We were hoping you’d be able to help us with something else.” Christine felt the first icy pangs of uneasiness. Something about the change in his voice, his sudden reluctance to look her in the eye, made her scalp prickle. “Help you with what?” Connelly looked down at his shoes and sighed. “It’s a rather delicate matter, actually. One I wish to hell I could spare you. But the fact is . . .” The words fell away, his eyes straying again, this time to a gurney on the opposite side of the room. “We need your help, Christine.” Uneasiness morphed into dread as her gaze slid along with Connelly’s to the nondescript white mound on the second gurney. He was shifting from foot to foot now, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. “Stephen’s wasn’t the only body we pulled from his car,” he said gruffly. “Unfortunately, no identification was found for the second victim. We were hoping . . .” The attendant was there suddenly, his blue latex gloves hovering expectantly over the sheet. Connelly gave...

was a gash on her forehead, and a sickening depression along her right temple. Her eyes were open and glazed, a piercing shade of violet with fixed, bottomless pupils. She was also naked from the waist up, her breasts so full and round they couldn’t possibly have been formed by nature. Christine found herself unable to look away. A prostitute? A one-night stand? A casual dalliance or something more? And if so, how much more? Connelly cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea—” “No.” “I know this is hard, Christine, but please take your time. Look closely.” “I don’t need to look closely. I don’t know who she is or what she was doing in my husband’s car.” Her voice broke suddenly, and for an instant, she thought about lunging at the detective. “This is why you’re here. Because of her. Because you were Stephen’s friend, and they thought you’d be able to get a name out of me. That’s what you meant when you said you were here to explain things. When you said things, you meant her.” “Christine, I know this doesn’t look good. I can’t even imagine what’s going through your mind right now, but we don’t know what this means. We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” “She isn’t wearing a sh...

woman was pulled from a man’s car in the middle of the night. Connelly shifted uneasily, his beefy shoulders bunched. “Was he—do you know if he was . . . seeing anyone?” Christine glared at him, astonished. “You’re asking if I knew my husband was having an affair? Like that’s something we’d discuss over dinner?” “I’m sorry. I thought maybe women had a sense about these things. Women’s intuition or whatever you call it.” She eyed him coldly. Connelly ran a hand through his thatch of gray hair. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job. I’ve got two years left in homicide, and I’m out. Until then, I do what they tell me. When they realized who they’d pulled out of the bay, they asked me to come down and talk to you. We’ve got a Jane Doe whose family is going to want to know why she didn’t come home tonight, and we can’t tell them until we know who she is.” Christine bristled at the inference that it was somehow her duty to help identify the half-nude woman. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Detective. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home. You said there were some papers I needed to sign.” Connelly st...

“For now, yes. You’ll get a copy of the report when the ME’s finished his examination, and someone will call to let you know when you can come down and collect his things.” Christine stared at him blankly. “His things?” “Keys. Wallet. Cell phone.” “Right. His things.” She turned toward the door, fumbling in her pocket for her own keys. “Here,” Connelly said. “Let me walk you out.” “Thanks, no. I can find my way.” She knew she should thank him for coming down in the middle of the night, but somehow she couldn’t manage it. She was almost to the door when he stopped her. “I’m sorry about this, Christine. Truly sorry. Stephen was a friend, but he was also a highly visible public figure. The media’s going to want to know what happe...

It was half past four when Christine finally navigated the Range Rover back through the security gate and into the garage. For a time—she couldn’t say how long—she simply sat there with the door open and the engine running. The sun would be up soon, the beginning of a new day. There would be people to call, details to handle, but she was too numb to think about any of that now. Instead, she sat in the eerie glow of the dashboard lights, wondering how her carefully ordered marriage had ended in such a spectacular derailment. She had married an icon, a catch by any woman’s standards. Not bad for a girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Stephen Ludlow. Even his name had conjured respect. And if he’d seen it as his job to smooth out her rough edges and make her over into a proper society wife, it was a small price to pay for the stability she had craved. But who was she now that Stephen was gone? A widow suddenly adrift, unmoored from a life that had never quite been hers. A widow.

How was that even possible? Marriage had never been part of her plan. Far from it, in fact. She’d grown up hard and fast, the way most children of addicts did, and had learned a thing or two along the way. At ten, she learned that no address was permanent, at twelve, that no promise was sacred, and at sixteen, that there was no such thing as safe. There were other lessons too. Lessons that were still etched in her mind—and her flesh. She dragged back her coat sleeve, and stared at the trio of scars on her wrist, shiny and pale, like a constellation of tiny moons. Her badge of survival. Yes, she’d learned a thing or two growing up, including what happened when you trusted the wrong people. And then she met Stephen. He was handsome and charming, a rising star in the publishing world. But even more appealing was the fact that he hadn’t batted an eye when she informed him, quite emphatically, that children weren’t part of her long-term plans. In fact, he’d seemed pleased. He was career minded and so was she. At least that was the excuse she’d given. They were married six months later. It wasn’t a storybook marriage by any means, but then she’d never really bought into the whole happily-ever-after myth. Like most whirlwind romances, the early days had been about newness and chemistry, but over time their relationship had evolved into a kind of arm’s length alliance, symbiotic and safe, steady. Or so she thought. She glanced at the clock on the dash. Nearly five. How was it poss...

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-l...

she needed to make: Stephen’s agent, their lawyer, the insurance company. At least there were no family members to contact. Like her, Stephen had been an only child, and both his parents were dead; his father of a heart attack while Stephen was still in school, his mother of a cerebral hemorrhage two years ago. It was a terrible thing to be grateful for, but knowing what she did, she couldn’t imagine having to tell his parents about the accident—or face them at his funeral. She was in the process of unlacing her boots when the kitchen phone rang. By the time she got to it, the call had gone to voice mail. She waited for the recorded message to play out, then picked up when she heard Stephen’s agent on the other end. “I’m here, Gary.” “Tell me it’s a mistake, Christine. Tell me what I just heard on the news isn’t true.” “It isn’t a mistake. Stephen’s dead.” “What the hell happened?” “The police said there was ice on the bridge. His car skidded into Echo Bay.” “Jesus, I’m sorry, Christine. This is . . . I can’t believe it. I thought he was on his way to New York for a signing at the Strand. What the hell was he doing up near Echo Bay?” Christine...

“I saw him, Gary. They made me go down and identify his body.” “Jesus, God. I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” “It was.” “There are things—” He broke off. There was a brief stretch of silence before he went on. “Look, I’m not trying to be a bastard or anything. Stephen was a friend. But there are things we’re going to need to talk about. Details.” “The medical examiner has to finish up before they can release Stephen’s body. They didn’t think it would be more than a few days. I suppose I could—” There was an awkward clearing of his throat as Gary cut her off. “I wasn’t talking about funeral arrangements, Christine. I meant contractual details, how things work when an author dies. Part of the advance for his next book has been paid out, and now—” “Now he’ll never finish it.” “Yes.” “I don’t care about any of that, Gary. I never have. You know that. Just take care of it. Whatever needs to be done, do it.” “All right,” he said, willing for the moment at least to let the subject drop. “We’ll talk again when you’ve had some time. I didn’t mean to get into this today. I just wanted you to be aware that there needs to be a conversation at some point, no...

one up with a spoon, Christine. Just remember, you don’t have to talk to anyone until you’re ready. Or ever really. Your grief isn’t anyone’s business but yours. In the meantime, I’ll review the language in Stephen’s contract about editorial control, and of course the royalties, which, as you know are fairly sizable. I do know he named you as his literary executor.” Christine was too fuzzy to digest what he was saying. “I don’t know what that means.” “It means you decide how Stephen’s work is handled going forward; copyright issues, movie rights, that sort of thing. But it’s nothing you need to worry about right now. Right now, you need to take care of yourself and get through this. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, I want you to pick up the phone. I mean it, Christine. Anything.” She was numb as she ended the call. She had only digested about half of what Gary said and wasn’t sure she cared about the other half. The truth was she’d never had much of a grasp on how and when Stephen got paid. It had been hard enough when there were only three books. Now there were eleven, not counting A Fatal Franchise, which was set to release in eight weeks. The truth was she had n...

The thought of what lay ahead left her exhausted as she mounted the stairs to the bedroom she and Stephen had shared. She desperately needed a shower, but the effort required to strip off her clothes was more than she could muster. Instead, she settled for brushing her teeth and washing her face. She was foraging in the medicine chest for the bottle of ibuprofen when the phone rang again. The number wasn’t one she recognized. She let the call go to voice mail, cringing as a reporter for the Boston Globe rambled through polite but curt condolences before finally getting around to business and asking for an interview. The message no sooner ended than the phone rang again. The Portland Press Herald this time, followed by the Times, the Mirror, and the Dallas Morning News. She let them all go to voice mail. The messages were largely the same, a pretense at sympathy followed by a request for an interview with the widow. When the phone rang a fifth time, she turned off the ringer, did the same with the phone in the kitchen, then shut down her cell for good measure. Gary was right. Her grief—and anything else she might be feeling—was no one’s business but her own. Out of habit, she wan...

Eight years. How had they slipped by so quickly? And how had she not noticed that things were changing—that Stephen was changing? Or maybe she’d just pretended not to notice. Determined to shake the thought, she reached for the remote. The screen flared to life; a pair of talking heads behind the WGME news desk, with a bright-red breaking news banner crawling across the bottom. AUTHOR STEPHEN LUDLOW DIES IN CAR CRASH. It was bad enough seeing the words, but when Stephen’s face flashed up on the screen—the headshot from the back cover of his last book—she sagged onto the sofa and turned up the sound. “Police say Ludlow’s car skidded off the Echo Bay Bridge and submerged in the chilly waters below. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, but it’s believed that ice on the bridge was to blame for the crash. Divers recovered the body just after midnight. Ludlow is best known for his Craig Childress detective novels, several of which have been made into successful action films. Ludlow resided in Clear Harbor, Maine, and is survived by his wife, Christine. The couple had been married for eight years and had no children.” “No,” Christine said, clicking off the set when c...

She never understood why people, women especially, assumed that every woman on the planet felt a bone-deep need to clone themselves for posterity. If they knew what she knew, had seen what she’d seen, they’d know there were worse things than being childless—like having a child you weren’t equipped to care for and scarring it for life. She rose, carrying her coffee mug to the kitchen, then stood staring out the window over the sink. It had begun to snow, lazy flakes drifting down like small white wings. It was the third week of November, a little early for serious snow even in Maine, which meant it wasn’t likely to hang around. Still, the sight of it accumulating on the deck was depressing. Stephen had loved the New England winters. Or rather, he had loved the idea of them, of being holed up over the long, frigid months, pecking away in a study with tall windows that overlooked the sea. It was the image he liked, the way he wanted the world to see him. But then, for Stephen everything had been about image. His career, the house, even their marriage had been carefully crafted to resemble something from the pages of a glossy magazine, as if real life had never quite been enough for...

after Labor Day, when Clear Harbor emptied for the season, cars were virtually nonexistent, though it wouldn’t be the first time a tourist had ignored the PRIVATE ROAD sign and ventured out onto the point. Curious, she padded to the living room and peered through the curtains, troubled to see that a handful of TV news trucks had gathered outside the front gates, looking like something f...

Clear Harbor, Maine November 26, 2016 It had taken only a handful of days for Stephen’s death to go from local tragedy to national obsession, and now, a week later, Christine couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing some rehashed version of how the literary community had been tragically deprived of its brightest star. And if that wasn’t enough, the number of media trucks outside the gate had been growing exponentially and were now accompanied by a throng of reporters peering through the fence. She had yet to brave the mob. In fact, with the exception of a phone call to Dorsey and Sons to make arrangements for Stephen’s memorial, she hadn’t braved anything at all, choosing to remain cloistered, licking her wounds without the intrusion of phones, newspapers, or the Internet. But today she would have to leave her sanctuary. Today was Stephen’s memorial. She had expected to feel something like closure when she woke this morning, or at least the promise of closure,

but all she felt was dread. She had managed to get through the morning, skipping breakfast to rake through her closet for something to wear to the service. Now, as she descended the stairs, she caught her reflection in the mirror at the end of the gallery, a dry-eyed ghost wearing the suit she had purchased two years ago for her mother-in-law’s funeral. She dreaded the day ahead, queasy at the thought of facing Stephen’s friends, playing the grieving widow when the truth was she was quietly fuming. She hadn’t let herself be angry at first, passing those early few days in a kind of haze. It seemed wrong somehow, to be angry with someone who had just died. But then out of nowhere she had been struck with a mix of fury and curiosity, propelling her to Stephen’s study in search of the usual red flags—suspicious hotel bills, clandestine e-mails, lingerie receipts. Initially, she had come up empty. But then she noticed a pattern of monthly autodrafts paid to Star Properties LTD. The name didn’t ring any bells. For all she knew, Star Properties was one of the publicity firms Stephen used to book events and draft press releases. But there were also regular transfers to an account labeled TRAVEL—$4,000 drafted on the fifth of every month. Not that either was proof of an affair. It was entirely possible the payments were legitimate business expenses or that they were related to Stephen’s investments. But her intuition told her they were not. In the end, it was a photograph that prov...

years, when she noticed that in one of the shots his eyes were angled toward a small group of onlookers. And there she was at the edge of the frame, wearing skintight jeans and four-inch heels, her heavily made-up eyes slanting boldly back at Stephen. It was the intimacy of the look that knocked the breath out of Christine, a private moment captured by chance, and for a moment, she found herself trying to remember if there had ever been a time when she and Stephen had looked at each other that way. If there was, she couldn’t remember it. Was that Stephen’s fault or hers? She couldn’t say, but she felt the thought lodge itself in some dark corner of her mind, like a pebble in a shoe that could be ignored for a while but would eventually have to be dealt with. The case clock on the mantel chimed softly, reminding Christine that she had somewhere to be. But as she grabbed her purse from the kitchen counter, her eyes slid to the phone. She’d been checking her messages all week, hoping to hear back from Connelly, but so far there’d been nothing. Eleven new messages awaited her when she pushed the button—reporters, colleagues, even offers of sympathy from neighbors who’d heard the new...

Was she all right? Christine blew out a sigh. She appreciated him checking on her, but it was hard to say what constituted all right these days. She jabbed the button again. This time Gary’s tone bordered on urgent. “Christine—Jesus. Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days now, and all I get is this damn machine. Call me as soon as you get this. We need to talk.” She rolled her eyes as she checked her watch. She had time for only one phone call before she had to leave, and it wasn’t going to be about book advances and movie rights. She needed—no, she deserved—to at least know the name of the woman who had died with her husband. She dialed Connelly’s number from memory—after four failed attempts she knew it by heart. Not that she expected to catch him at his desk. He was always out on some investigation when she called, or in the middle of an interview. Today proved no different. The woman who answered the phone informed her briskly that Detective Connelly was out of the office and promptly shunted her off to his voice mail. She left another message for what it was worth—the fifth by her count—and hung up. Maybe it was just coincidence that he was never...

going to have to navigate her way through the mob of reporters at the gate. Her palms felt sticky as she backed the Rover out of the garage and down the driveway, then reached for the remote clipped to the driver’s side visor. She thought Stephen was just being paranoid when he’d insisted on installing a perimeter fence and security gates—to keep out crazed fans and curiosity seekers, he’d explained—but now she was grateful. Though she doubted he had foreseen a time when the curiosity seekers would turn out to be members of the press clamoring for a glimpse of his widow. The furor began the moment the gates began to slide back, reporters with notepads and cell phone cameras held aloft squeezing through the opening like a colony of fire ants. Apparently they’d seen the memorial notice in the Herald and were hoping to grab a quote as she left the house. The Rover lurched backward as she goosed the accelerator. She held her breath as she continued down the drive, eyes focused straight ahead as she inched past the gaggle of leering faces. Just a few more yards and she’d be home free. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a meaty fist pounded on the driver’s side window. She...

THE NAKED AND THE DEAD: MYSTERY BLONDE PULLED FROM STEPHEN LUDLOW’S CAR The earth shifted as Christine stared at the headline, a slow, shuddering quake that only she seemed to notice. As if sensing her dismay, the reporters’ questions ratcheted up, swelling from hungry clamor to full-blown frenzy. Frantic, she cast about for some route of escape, only to find herself hopelessly cut off from both the road and the open garage door. She was going to have to make a run for it. They rushed her the instant her foot touched the driveway, like a pack of gulls after a toddler with a french fry. There was no scurrying for the front door. No scurrying anywhere. Instead, she was forced to elbow her way through the crush, eyes fixed desperately on the front door. If she could just get inside and bolt herself in, she’d be safe. But the reporters knew it too and collectively wedged themselves between her and the front steps, so that her only choice was to brave the gauntlet. Lowering her head, she plunged into the fray, muscling past faces that seemed to blur into a single, greedy entity bent on blocking her path. She was nearly sobbing by the time she reached the front door, so shaken she almost dropped her house key. She had lost her scarf somewhere in the press, and the top button on her jacket was hanging by a thread, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was reaching sanctuary. “Mrs. Ludlow!” A woman’s voice suddenly rose above the din. “Do you know the woman they pulled from your

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...

national tabloid? Jane Doe’s face stared back at her in grainy black and white, her once vivid violet eyes reduced to a nondescript shade of gray. It took all the strength she had to keep turning pages until she located the actual story: a grisly two-page spread along with another splashy headline: CAN YOU IDENTIFY THIS WOMAN? There were four additional photos scattered throughout the article, each more disturbing than the last. The first was an enlarged shot and very blurry, and yet there was no mistaking the crescent-shaped birthmark on the woman’s right breast, highlighted now with a circle of bright-red ink. The next two shots were of her face, one taken straight on, the other in profile. The last photo was a shot of her lying on the gurney, the polished toes of her right foot peeking obscenely from the sheet draped over the lower half of her body. The story itself was no better, full of dark implications and gruesome innuendo, though given the evidence, it was hard to draw any conclusion but the obvious one. Christine stared at the blackout boxes strategically placed over the woman’s breasts, certain their purpose had less to do with journalistic discretion than with height...

story. Battling a fresh wave of nausea, she reached for the TV remote and began surfing. It didn’t take long—only three clicks—to find Stephen’s face splashed across the screen. And hers. The picture was from their vacation in Barbados three years ago. How had they gotten it? “Stephen and Christine Ludlow were married in 2008” the Entertainment Tonight anchor was saying as a fresh round of photographs appeared on screen. “By all accounts, their marriage had been a happy one. But recent developments are raising questions about whether Ludlow might have been romantically involved with the scantily clad woman whose photos have now appeared in several tabloids. No identification was found when divers retrieved her body from Ludlow’s car. Authorities tell us the investigation into the woman’s identity is ongoing. Ludlow’s wife has been unavailable for comment. We’ll continue to keep you updated on this story as information becomes available.” Christine clicked, then clicked again, running through the list of cable news channels. The story was everywhere. Different talking heads, different photos, but the gist of the coverage was the same. Iconic author dies while cheating on wife wit...

the good they’ve done me. So what I need you to do right now is put me on hold and go find him. Don’t come back and tell me he’s in an interview or out on a case. I’m a case. My dead husband is a case. So unless you want me to come down there and camp out in the lobby, you’ll put him on the phone.” There was no response, just a curt click followed by empty silence as she was put on hold. While she waited, she picked up her water bottle and pressed it to her cheek, then her neck, wondering what excuse she’d be given this time. She nearly dropped the phone when Connelly’s voice came over the line. “Christine, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped. As I’m sure you’ve seen, there’s been . . . a development.” “Yes, I’ve seen,” she snapped. “I’ve seen that my driveway is so full of reporters I can’t get out to attend my husband’s memorial service. I thought you said you could keep things quiet.” There was a long pause, then a gravelly rumble as Connelly cleared his throat. “There was a leak, Christine. It sucks, but it happens. If the brass ever finds out who it was, they’ll be fired, but at this point the genie’s out of the bottle.” “The genie’s out of the bottle? That’s what you have to say ...

“And what do you know?” There was another long pause, the sound of a heavy breath being let out slowly. “Unfortunately, not much more than we did the night of the accident. We got a few tips this morning after the photos broke. We’re checking them out, but in cases like this, you tend to get a lot of crackpots. So far there’s nothing concrete. Whoever she was, no one’s looking for her. At least not yet.” “So what do I do? I live on a private road, and I can’t get out of my house. They’re practically camped out on my front porch. I can’t even close the front gates.” “I’ll send a car around to move them off your property and clear the street. I can’t guarantee they won’t be back, but for now at least, we can give you a little breathing room.” “And you’ll call me when you finally know something?” “Christine.” His voice was annoyingly paternal. “Sometimes the best thing for everyone is to just move on, to remember the good times instead of dwelling on a lot of unpleasantness. A name isn’t going to change anything. Why not leave the police business to us, hmm?” “Because we’re not talking about police business, Detective. We’re talking about my life. My husband. My marriage. My dri...

“You knew, didn’t you? Maybe not her name, but you knew there was someone.” Another sigh, this one weightier than the last. “I wasn’t sure, but I suspected. He’d let a few things slip now and then. Nothing specific, just . . . things. He never mentioned a name, though, and I never pressed him for one.” “Of course not. That would be breaking the rules.” “Rules?” “The cheater’s club or whatever you call it. All for one and one for all. Isn’t that how it works?” “Look, Christine, I know this hasn’t been easy for you, especially the way it all went down, but one thing I do know is that Stephen—” “Don’t!” she snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare say he loved me. That isn’t why I called, to have you reassure me that a half-naked woman in my husband’s car doesn’t mean anything. She means something to me. I think I have the right to at least know her name—and I don’t mean by reading it in the tabloids. It’s been a week, and honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not dragging your feet on purpose.” “What is it you’re accusing me of?” The paternal tone was gone, replaced with a gruff wariness. “I’m not accusing you of anything. All I want is a name. And ...

And if we break those rules, we get in trouble. I’ve put in a whole lot of years here and put up with a whole lot of crap. At this point, all I want is to get out and spend a few years on a little sailboat down in the Keys. I’m not about to stick my neck out, not even for the wife of a friend. I know that sounds harsh, but I have to look out for myself here. Stephen’s death wasn’t a homicide, which means I’m not even the guy you should be talking to. If anything, it’s a missing-persons case, and it’s not even that since no one’s filed an actual complaint on her. Either way, it’s not my purview. Now I need to go do my job. I’ll make sure they send that patrol car around, but I’m sorry, that’s all I can do.” And just like that Daniel Connelly was gone. Christine was still leaning against the counter, wondering why she’d just been given the brush-off, when the phone rang. She pounced on it, hoping Connelly had changed his mind. Instead, it was Dorsey and Sons. In the mayhem, she had forgotten that Stephen’s friends and colleagues were at that very moment gathering to pay him tribute—and wondering what had happened to the widow. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. Apparently...

once joked. Leave it to Stephen to think he could buy his way out of the end of the world. She closed the safe and was preparing to leave when she looked down at her left hand, at the ring that symbolized her marriage—a colorless two-carat emerald cut. Nothing but the best for the wife of Stephen Ludlow. It slid easily from her finger; apparently she’d lost weight after a week of subsisting on tea and toast. Her hand felt strangely light, but there was no sense of guilt as she placed the ring on the desk. Stephen had walked away from their marriage some time ago. Now it was her turn. She held her breath as she peered out the front windows. As far as she could tell, the coast was still clear, no news trucks parked outside the gate, no photographers crouching in the boxwoods. Breath held, she shouldered her bags, stepped out onto the porch, and made a break for the Rover sitting in the middle of the driveway. Her heart hammered as she scrambled up behind the wheel, locked all four doors, and started the engine. The gates slid soundlessly as she pressed the remote, and then she was through them with nothing but empty road before her. The exhilaration was almost heady, but unsettlin...

Ravenel, South Carolina January 8, 1994 Christy-Lynn hunches deeper into her jacket as she moves down the puddled sidewalk, kicking herself for not leaving her math and science books in her locker. It’s ridiculously cold, even for January, and an icy rain is falling. She keeps her head down, drawn in like a turtle’s beneath her oversize hood, limiting her field of vision to the three feet of pavement directly in front of her. Her hands are numb with cold, clenched into fists and thrust deep in her pockets. Her apartment key is there. She turns it over in her fingers, already anticipating the cup of hot chocolate she’ll make when she reaches the apartment—if there’s any left. At this point, she’ll settle for tea. As long as it’s hot. She quickens her pace when the sign for the Palm Manor Apartments comes into view, the painted letters flaking off into what might once have been a garden, but is now just a muddy puddle littered with candy wrappers and cigarette butts. Only a few more steps and she’ll be inside, warm and dry, with a mug of something hot to drink. And her copy of The Outsiders.

It was supposed to be homework for Mrs. Kendrick’s English class, but it didn’t feel like homework at all. How could reading be work when you got to meet people and go places you’d never be able to go in real life? She smiles as she thinks of Cherry and Ponyboy, the movie-star-handsome Sodapop. They have become her friends, outsiders like her, from the wrong side of town. Except they have one another, and she has no one, a freak loner from an entirely different world than kids who wore name-brand jeans and went home to real houses. It might be nice to belong to a gang—not the drug-selling, gun-toting kind of gang—just a few kids who wouldn’t tease her for wearing thrift store clothes and bringing her lunch in a brown paper bag. She’s still weighing the pros and cons of gang membership when the rain-drenched quiet is broken by a sharp string of oaths. “Goddamn rain! Every goddamn time I gotta boot somebody out, it goddamn rains!” Christy-Lynn jerks her head up, knocking the hood back from her face as she searches for the source of the swearing, then freezes when she spots a mound of clothing and furniture on the soaking wet steps outside their apartment. And then she’s running with the rain in her eyes and a knot in her stomach, running toward a man carrying the mismatched lamps her mother had brought home from Goodwill a few months back. “What are you doing? That’s our stuff!” “And that’s my apartment,” the man says, jerking a thumb at the open apartment door. He’s tall an...

“I can,” he barks back. As if to make his point, he drops both lamps onto the soggy heap of household belongings. The larger of the two rolls off the pile and onto the pavement with a sickening pop as the bulb implodes. “Says so right in the lease your old lady signed when she moved in. Two months late, you’re out.” A boy carrying an armload of towels and pillows appears in the doorway. He’s not much older than she is—fourteen or fifteen—a younger version of his father, with the same yellow hair, hard jaw, and cold eyes. He fires the pillows out onto the pile from where he stands, then aims a hard little smile at her. It isn’t the first time he’s helped his father evict someone. Eviction. The word fills her with shame. She knows things have been tight, that her mother’s been struggling to make ends meet, stretching the groceries with hot dogs and boxed mac and cheese, but she never realized it was this bad. No wonder she’s been picking up extra shifts at the Piggly Wiggly. And why she always looks so worn-out, like little by little she’s coming apart at the seams. Christy-Lynn is still staring at the sopping heap of their belongings, her gaze locked on a fuzzy purple foot—the st...

need right now is for Charlene Parker to get fired. Besides, there’s no way to call. Even if the landlord were to let her back into the apartment—which she was willing to bet he wouldn’t—the phone had been shut off weeks ago. The landlord’s son appears again, this time with an armload of pots and pans, including the cast-iron skillet her mother uses to make corn bread. He drops them onto the stoop with a clatter, then turns back to take a box his father is holding out. It looks like cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink, window cleaner, cleanser, dish soap, a half-used roll of paper towels. She watches as the cardboard darkens in the rain, the roll of paper towels slowly wilting. It’s the paper towels that finally push Christy-Lynn to the edge, the sight of them slumping in the sharp, icy rain is simply too much to bear. They don’t have much, a fact that’s hard to dispute when everything they own now sits in one ghastly pile on the stoop. Is it too much to ask that he spare their roll of paper towels? A wave of rage suddenly boils up in her, mingled with a throat full of tears she struggles to swallow. It isn’t the unfairness of it; if they’re really two months behind in...

He stares at her a moment through the rain, his straw-colored hair plastered flat to his head, then shrugs. “If there’s stuff you want, you best get busy.” He bends down and reaches into the carton of cleaning supplies, coming up with a box of plastic trash bags. He tosses the box to her without aiming. “If this stuff ain’t off the sidewalk in the next hour, it’s going in the dumpster.” Christy-Lynn watches mutely as the landlord’s son disappears back into the apartment. And then finally, because there’s nothing...

Sweetwater, Virginia November 20, 2016 Wade Pierce stared at the blinking cursor with gritty eyes. It still wasn’t right. Three hours on one damn scene, and it still wasn’t right. Nor was bashing away at it for another three hours likely to fix the problem. It wasn’t the scene; it was him. He was edgy and unfocused, buzzy from way too much coffee. Frazzled, he shoved back from the table and padded to the fridge for a Mountain Dew, then opted for a bottle of water instead. The last thing he needed was more caffeine. He took a long pull as he opened the sliding glass doors and stepped out onto the deck. The air was heavy and gray, thick with the scent of damp ground and distant wood smoke. It was a good smell, an earthy smell. No bus fumes or car exhaust. No reek of trash or piss-soaked alleys. He filled his lungs, scanning the rolling hills that rimmed the town of Sweetwater. The foliage that had set the hilltops ablaze in recent weeks was gone now, leaving behind a landscape that seemed to mirror

his mood of late, chilly and barren, devoid of color. Maybe a city boy trying to live off the grid wasn’t such a good idea after all. Or maybe he was just sick of his own company. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—getting away. Okay, running away if he was being truthful. To finally get back to doing something that fed his soul instead of just his bank account. Only it wasn’t working. He liked to pretend running off to the wilds to live like a hermit had been about getting in touch with his muse, but it hadn’t. At least not entirely. He’d been hoping for peace, maybe some kind of closure after his abrupt and somewhat volatile departure from Week in Review. But coming to Sweetwater hadn’t brought him anything remotely close to peace. Instead, he spent the better part of each day questioning the wisdom of chasing a dream he should have buried twenty years ago. A novelist. After all the lost years, all the sporadic fits and starts, he was back at it again. Which could only mean he needed his head examined. There were guys who were born with the Midas touch, the Stephen Ludlows of the world, karmic alchemists who despite breaking all the rules never failed to turn dross into gold, who with little or no effort enjoyed fame, fortune, and the adoration of millions. Not to mention getting the girl—the kind who stood by you no matter what. And then there were guys like him, who walked the straight line and kept their noses to the grindstone, but always seemed to end up at ...

He’d quit his job and lost his wife pretty much in one go. As for Ludlow, that was ancient history. Holding a grudge about something that happened twenty years ago had been a handy excuse, but it was time to own the choice he’d made all those years ago to walk away from his writing. And so he would stay in this place, where he’d spent every summer of his childhood fishing with his grandfather, and do what he’d come here to do. Win or lose, he would finish the book and take his shot. Staring out over the lake now, he thought of his grandfather, of sticky afternoons spent on the water, waiting for something to bite. The old man was gone now, God rest his soul, and the cabin belonged to him, though it had been empty for more years than he cared to count. It had been strange at first, being back. He’d spent the first three months getting the place in shape, updating fixtures and appliances, bringing the plumbing and wiring up to code. It was comfortable now, in a barebones, back-to-the-land sort of way. Best of all, there was no television, no phone, and no Wi-Fi. Other than the cell phone he kept for emergencies or an occasional conversation with the mailman, he was blissfully cut ...

He had nowhere to be and nothing to do, and he wrote better when it was raining. He had just turned to head back inside when he heard his cell going off. It rang so rarely these days it took a moment to register what he was hearing. Stepping in off the deck, he grabbed the phone from the top of the fridge, expecting it to be Justin saying he was on his way with the cord of wood he had ordered last week. “Wade! Buddy! How the hell are you?” Okay, not Justin. Wade scrambled to connect the voice with a face, finally landing on Glen Hoyt, Week in Review’s top crime beat writer. They had teamed up on a few pieces—dirty politicians, contractors lining their pockets on the city’s dime. When it came to digging up dirt, Glen was everybody’s go-to guy. He had also tried to talk him out of leaving Review. “Glen. What’s up?” Glen barked out a laugh, and for a moment, Wade could see him leaning back in his chair, battered wingtips propped up on his desk. “Yeah, it’s me. Just calling to see if you’re ready to rejoin the rat race.” “Let me guess, Killian put you up to calling.” “No, but I’m sure our beloved editor in chief would kill to get his hooks back in ...

“Truth in reporting.” “More like burning your bridges.” “You only need bridges if you’re planning to go back, and I’m not.” “Okay, I get it. But you can’t blame me for trying. Place isn’t the same since you left. Killian’s gone through three guys trying to replace you. The last one was the worst yet. Bastard couldn’t lock down a story with both hands and a lug wrench.” A brief silence fell. Glen cleared his throat. “So . . . have you heard from Simone?” Wade winced at the mention of his ex-wife’s name. He’d been preparing himself for the question, but it caught him off guard, like a punch you saw coming that still knocked the wind out of you. “Why would I hear from Simone?” “I don’t know. Old times, I guess. She left right after you did.” “No,” Wade said flatly. “I haven’t heard from her. We don’t have much to talk about anymore. The judge tied everything up nice and neat.” “Damn. That sucks. I was hoping you guys would patch it up, though I heard a while back that she was seeing someone.” The silence yawned as Glen’s words sank in. Seeing someone. Yes, of course she was. I...

“No. No torch.” “Right. Good. Guy’s some hotshot with WKPR. Tall, dark, and hair sprayed. Does the evening news. I think they might be living together.” Wade set down his bottled water and reached into the fridge for a beer. He twisted off the top, tossed it into the sink, and took a long pull. He wasn’t sure why the news stung. Simone had always wanted to make the switch from print to television. God knew she had the looks—not to mention the instincts necessary to claw her way up the food chain. “You still there, man?” Wade started. “What? Oh, yeah. Just, you know . . . busy.” “Oh good. For a minute there, I thought I lost you. So what’s the deal with the book? I know you said you were finally going to finish it. How’s that going?” “Good,” Wade replied, hating the lie. “Just polishing, you know.” “Yeah, you were always a polisher. All the i’s dotted, all the t’s crossed. Every word chosen for maximum impact. Killian really screwed up when he let you get away.” Wade checked his watch, suddenly eager to end the call. “Listen, I’m in a kind of time crunch here with the edits...

memories of his time at Week in Review. Not that it was all bad. In fact, in the beginning it was pretty amazing. The pace had been grueling, but he’d relished the work. He had interviewed POWs and Holocaust survivors; the victims of rape, incest, racism, and mass shootings; the survivors of oil tanker explosions; and wives who lost firefighter husbands when the towers fell on 9/11. And somewhere in there he’d even managed to snag himself a Hearst Award. But as time went by, the lines between news and sensationalism began to blur, and word came down from on high that human interest was dead. They wanted shock and fear, blood and gore, the gruesome tick-tock of human tragedy, because fear outsold hope and always would. Things finally reached critical mass when Killian ordered him to interview a survivor from the Crystal Lake Middle School shooting; a twelve-year-old whose mother—a teacher’s aide—had been shot and killed while standing just three feet away. That’s where he had drawn the line and walked away, though not before letting Killian and an entire newsroom full of reporters know exactly what he thought. It was a habit he had, saying what was...

Clear Harbor, Maine November 29, 2016 Traffic was virtually nonexistent as Christine pulled onto the highway. Good riddance, she thought as the Rover’s headlights swept past the dirty remnants of yesterday’s snowfall mounded around the guardrail. She didn’t know where she was headed. She only knew there wouldn’t be snow on the ground when she got there. What she needed was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, preferably one where they’d never heard of Stephen Ludlow, where she could lay low and take stock of what remained of her life. If only such a place existed. It didn’t of course. The Examiner had seen to that. But with a few days head start, she might be able to disappear until the fervor died down—or some new bit of schadenfreude captured the world’s attention. In the meantime, she needed to put as much distance as possible between herself and Clear Harbor. The only question was how far she’d be able to go before fatigue and the reality of what she’d done finally caught up with her. Two hours later, she had her answer. Her eyes had begun playing tricks on her several miles back, and more than once, she’d found herself mesmerized by the strobe effect of the highway’s broken white lines. She had no idea where she was when she finally stopped for gas, but she was glad for the chance to stretch her legs. She took a chance on the ladies’ room, which reeked of bleach and cherry air freshener, then bought a pair of bottled waters and several packs of Nabs. This wasn’t her ...

Pleasure from watching the pain of another

hour of sleep grabbed at a New Jersey rest stop had long since worn off. She needed food and sleep, and she needed them soon. Unfortunately, she hadn’t a clue where she was. Perhaps it was time to pull out the atlas and just pick a destination. As it turned out, she didn’t need the atlas. She had gone only a few miles when she spotted a billboard for HISTORIC DOWNTOWN SWEETWATER. The name felt familiar, conjuring images of cobbled streets and tiny hole-in-the wall galleries, a quaint inn with a wishing well in back—and Stephen. Without meaning to, she had stumbled onto one of the tiny towns they had visited on their honeymoon. They had stayed at a small inn whose name she couldn’t recall, had eaten fish and chips at a pub called the Rusty Nail, and then hung around for trivia. They’d been happy then, newlyweds with the whole world before them. What had happened to that couple? On impulse, she peeled off at the exit and followed the main road through the center of town. Not much had changed. The town was small and picturesque, the sidewalks lined with trendy shops and locally owned cafés. Her mouth watered at the thought of food, but her first order of business was finding a place to sleep. She pulled into the parking lot of the first inn she saw, an old converted farmhouse called the Fife and Feather. It was small but charming; two stories of clean white clapboard fronted with black shuttered windows and a small porch of weathered brick. A wreath of magnolia leaves and cre...

a jolt that Thanksgiving had come and gone. In the chaos after Stephen’s death, the holiday had simply slipped her mind, along with the turkey she had ordered from Longley’s. She wa...

bird as she stepped into the Fife and Feather’s cozy lobby, a snug, low-ceilinged room decorated with shaker furniture and primitive American folk art. “Hey there!” A pretty blonde stood grinning behind the registration counter. She looked to be in her thirties, but there was an air of prom queen about her too, perky and bright with her messy bun and shimmery pink lips. “Welcome to the Fife and Feather.” Christine ran a hand through her hair, painfully aware of her bedraggled appearance. “I was driving by and saw the VACANCY sign. I’m hoping you still have a room available.” The woman’s smile widened as she produced a registration form from somewhere below the counter. “You’re in luck. The leaf peepers are gone, and it’s too early for Christmas guests. You can pretty much take your pick. What brings you to Sweetwater?” “I’m, uh . . . just passing through.” “So just the one night then?” “Yes. Just one night.” “Well, we’re happy to have you. I’m Missy Beck, by the way—the owner. And since we’re so quiet, I’m going to put you in my favorite room. It was actually the library back when the Holcombes owned it. The bookcases are all original.” Christine didn’t have...