Getting to his feet was a gradual, painful process. Luke brushed pine needles from his ass, examined the blood down the front of his shirt again, then looked dazedly around.

“What the fuck?”

He tried to remember the night before. There were only glimpses . . . embarrassing flashes . . . indistinct puzzle pieces. Maybe the blow to the back of his head had caused some short-term memory loss. Or maybe it was the disgusting quantity of alcohol he’d consumed.

Okay, yeah, it was probably the alcohol, but still . . .

“My wife,” he groaned, looking around again, one hand plastered to his forehead.

“Say, you’re that actor fella,” the jogger said unhelpfully, and snapped a photo on his phone. It was either a lucky shot, or the jogger had a knack for capturing people at their most murderous-looking: Luke, sneering crookedly, standing in a gloomy forest with blood splashed across his shirt. The jogger would later post the shot to social media. Multiple news sources would comment on his impressive camerawork skills, and ask if they could use and distribute the photograph across all media. The jogger said, sure, go right ahead, to the first dozen or so, then wised up and started requesting payment—a decision that made his bank account very happy.

Luke, blessedly unaware of the U-turn his life was about to take, flapped a dismissive hand at the jogger, then staggered off in the direction of Uncle Lizard’s. He took out his cell phone and called Lisa. Straight to voice mail. She was probably back at the hotel, he thought, sleeping off her hangover. He then navigated Uber—slowly, through bleary eyes—and ordered a car. It took twenty minutes to arrive. During that time, Luke had the good sense to turn his bloodstained shirt inside out. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

Lisa wasn’t at the hotel, either. She hadn’t been back at all. The room was exactly as they’d left it: one bed made, the other (the one they’d had sex in) all messed up, the heavy sheets drooping to the floor. The curtains were pulled closed. Lisa’s bathroom shit was still assembled around the sink. Her toothbrush was bone-dry.

He called her cell again. Okay, now he was starting to worry. Had she bypassed the hotel and gone directly home? Had she gone to someone else’s home?

Straight to voice mail.

“Hey, hon . . . it’s, umm . . . it’s eleven-twenty, and I don’t . . . I don’t know where you are. That was . . . Christ, that was one hell of a night. Fucking Jesus. I woke up in the . . . Shit, I’ll tell you later. Anyway, I’m at the hotel. Give me a call or drop me a text when you get this. Okay? Love you, babe.”