Whether his or not, Amy was very pretty. Half Colombian, half English, she had long brown hair and doe-like brown eyes large and deep enough to suck the heart out of the unsuspecting. He remembered how when she used to look at him, he had felt like the luckiest man in the world. Her magical gaze, clear windows to a soul just as pure.

Immediately following her betrayal his main emotion had been confusion. Because she could not have done such a thing. She was neither a liar nor a cheat. He knew because he had stared into those eyes. But it had all been fun house mirrors. The love they shared had emanated from him alone.

Freckles sprinkled her light brown skin, particularly around her nose, which was short and cute. Her face was round but exotic. She cloaked herself in a silence that was often mistaken for depth by strangers. In reality, Amy was more shy than himself and did not socialize well. She had difficulty carrying on a conversation until she knew someone well. But alone with him she had been wonderful to talk to. Her great loves were movies and books. She could dissect and re-create a story from a dozen different angles, each one unique.

Her prize was her mouth; large and full lipped, with teeth so white they could have been bought at Cartier’s. When she used to kiss him, he had felt if he died tomorrow he would have already attained everything life had to offer.

“Hey, honey,” he whispered as she picked up the paper. On her way inside, she paused and turned in his direction. A picture to cherish: the long fall of her hair; the grace of her movements, mysteriously enhanced by her pregnancy. He remembered what it had been like to hold her, that delicious warmth.

He did not panic. She could not see him through the morning shadows. Besides, he was Simon Schiller, just a guy, no one she knew, sitting in a car.

She stared in his direction a moment, then went inside.

He felt the familiar ache: pain and love, the devil stabbing the angel. But soon he would give her such pain, it made him wonder if he was the demon. Yet he had been through these mental gymnastics before; he would not change his course. Starting his car, he drove toward the freeway.

He had been to the marina before, as Simon Schiller. He had rented the same boat he was renting today, even driven it north to the waters off Ventura. He had secured the rental with cash, as he planned to do this morning. He had a fake credit card he had purchased on the Internet—there was nothing you couldn’t get on the Web—but he was reluctant to use it in case it was traced back to him.