In the months following Marielle’s death, he’d barely functioned. He’d cried at times but not often. He thought it might have been because he was trying to be strong for Abby, but he didn’t really know. He did know, however, that he’d loved Marielle with all his heart. There’d always been a plentiful supply of attractive women on the racing circuit and, being a good-looking guy, Spencer had found he could pretty much have any that were available, besides a good many who shouldn’t have been. But after Marielle got in his car in that muddy forest back in England, it had all stopped: the partying, the woman juggling, the sexting, even the occasional threesome just stopped. And not only that, but he also felt ashamed about any of it ever having taken place. Marielle had a higher opinion of him, and he wished he’d always been the man she believed he was.

If he got out of his car and walked into the amiable little building opposite, he’d have to leave all the props behind. And if that wave of loneliness he’d felt looming back then was still looming now, a great cresting tsunami frozen in time, then he’d have nothing to stop it. The wave had suddenly, miraculously, been held off one day about two years ago when he’d met up with a friend from his racing days, an engineer whose ability to party was the stuff of legend. They’d hit the coke and, wonder of wonder, for the first time for way too long, Spencer had felt good, like everything might be OK, like he was OK.

And that seemed to be the way the props worked. They gave and gave, but one day they stopped giving. Like a beautiful and loyal dog that turns and starts chomping down right on its owner’s ass. And there was no breaking loose from those jaws.

Spencer stared through the windshield at the cracked pavement and fire hydrant lit by his headlights, at the dented rear of an old Toyota. He stared at these things but didn’t see. Marielle had been uncompromising in what she thought was right or wrong. Sometimes he sensed her presence, as if she were allowed out once in a while from wherever her spirit now resided.

Hey, baby, what’s up?

My watch, Marielle—it got stolen. I’m gutted. Everything’s just gone to hell since you left.

But Spencer, why would you have your window down at a light in that part of town? Were you smoking again?

And Spencer, not wanting to lie and yet not wanting to fess up, would have said nothing. And nothing would have told all.

That old guy in the gas station, Spencer, Milt did you say his name was? Sounds like a nice man. How come you guys were chatting so long? Didn’t you want to get back to Abby?