“Thank you,” she breathed. “It was lovely.”

“Thank you,” he said. And he watched her get into the car, gun the engine, and pull out of the parking lot.

Jake wearily climbed back to his apartment, fumbled with the key, then headed back to his thoroughly roiled bed. Lucky man, he told himself. As he undressed again he thought about Amy’s smooth, lithe body. Sitting on the bed, he realized that this was the first sex he’d had since Louise had died. He expected a pang of remorse, but instead he merely said to himself, Well, at least you haven’t forgotten how to do it.

But once he fell asleep he dreamed of Louise. He didn’t realize he was dreaming. He was sitting in the living room of their home, watching football on television. Louise sat on the big, comfortable sofa beside him, her feet tucked up beneath her, just as intent on the game as he was. A commercial break came on, and she got up and headed for the kitchen.

“Beer?” she asked, over her shoulder.

“Sure,” he said.

From the kitchen, Louise called, “Jake, can you come here a minute?”

He got up and went to the kitchen.

But it wasn’t the kitchen. It was the morgue where her battered body was laid out on a metal table and the police had taken him there to identify her body and it was her, Louise, her skull bashed in, her face caked with blood, her deep brown eyes open and staring sightlessly.

“They’ll have to perform an autopsy,” the policewoman was saying. “It’s mandatory in accident cases.”

Jake stepped to the edge of the table and reached out to close Louise’s eyes. The policewoman clasped his wrist.

“Sorry, sir. You’re not allowed to touch the body.”

“But she’s my wife.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

And Jake’s eyes snapped open. He was soaked with cold sweat. He sat up in the bed, his head hanging, and wished he could cry. He wanted to cry, wanted to let the tears burst out and wash away his grief. But the tears would not come. He was alone, without even tears to ease his agony.

Professor Sinclair’s Office

PROFESSOR SINCLAIR’S OFFICE

“No,” said Professor Arlan Sinclair.

Jake blinked with surprise. “No?”

They were sitting around the circular table that took up one corner of Professor Sinclair’s spacious office. A corner office, with big windows that looked out on the distant blue-hazed mountains. Amy Wexler sat on Jake’s left, Bob Rogers on his right. Tim Younger sat next to Rogers and Glynis Colwyn sat between Younger and the professor.