“She had one of those magnetic signs on the side of her truck. I swear, Jerry”—this was a good sign, when they started to protest in their own defense—“she didn’t even look in my direction.”

Was Gloria spying on him? If so, it was only a matter of time before she started snooping around, asking questions, and finding out he didn’t work at the stables at all. He needed to put this to rest or find himself looking for another place to stay before he had gotten what he came to Tucson for. He was too close to screw it up now.

Beaufort took Achilles off Gloria’s lap, and he knew he still had her from the way she let the dog go, as if she knew what was coming. He leaned forward and reached into where her bathrobe closed. Her hips moved in response.

“There you go,” he said. “I’ll show you I haven’t shot my wad yet.” That came out before he could think about whether it was the best way to say it.

She didn’t seem to think it was crass. “You could have left a note,” she protested, but weakly now, as if begging him to lie.

Beaufort stood up, left Gloria in the chair with her knees spread slightly, went to the desk, and turned on her computer. It was that conversation with the wife that set him on edge. Was that racetrack built after the seventies? Is that where she caught him? He had taken an awful chance with saying a time when he had raced there. He googled Pompano Park history. It was built in 1964. Close one, but safe. He was getting good at this computer business.

Gloria’s voice got to him before she did. It made him jump. You were always on alert inside for someone coming up behind you. She didn’t seem to notice, though, when she said, “I understand, Jerry. Sometimes a man has to look at a few porn pictures to get in the mood.” Then he could feel her standing behind him, looking at the computer screen. “A racetrack?” she said.

Beaufort’s hands hovered over the keyboard, frozen in space. It wasn’t the racetrack question that alerted him. That could be innocent with Gloria thinking he had worked with horses. It was the remark before it. His mood had definitely soured. He stood up, his back to the screen, the desk chair pushed aside rather than coming between them. “What did you say?” he asked.

Gloria got that scared puppy look she got sometimes when she knew she had said the wrong thing, the thing that might make a man hurt her or, what would be worse, leave her. But he knew she couldn’t imagine anything worse than that. Gloria, for all her charm, had a very limited imagination.

Beaufort said again, “What did you say?”