His mind racing, Martin stared at his laptop. A swell of nausea washed over his insides. He’d hit “send” without checking the address. His wife’s and Maria’s names both began with M.
His tie loose around his damp collar, Martin drove home from work, the radio too loud. He tried to imagine what might await him: boxer shorts strewn across the hedges, shards of China littering the hallway.
The late-day July sun blazed down on the highway blacktop, softening its edges. Rush hour traffic, always heavy, slowed to a turtle’s speed.
Behind him sirens wailed. In the far right lane was a red Toyota Corolla, its left side ripped away. The driver lay on the road covered with a plastic sheet.
Martin got out of his car and ran. Scorching waves wafted up from the asphalt. The last time he’d seen Melissa’s car had been that morning in their driveway.
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