Dark Rivers of the Heart

by Dean Koontz

All of us are travelers lost, our tickets arranged at a cost unknown but beyond our means. This odd itinerary of scenes —enigmatic, strange, unreal— leaves us unsure how to feel. No postmortem journey is rife with more mystery than life. —The Book of Counted Sorrows

He went to bars not to drink but to avoid being alone—and to tell his story to someone who would not remember it in the morning.

The dog craned his head forward to lick his master’s right hand, which was still clenched around the wheel. He seemed to be saying that Spencer should relax and just do what he had come there to do.

Even if the glass had been washed since Valerie had taken a drink from it, her lips had once touched the rim. He had never kissed her. Perhaps he never would.