professional ballplayer. She always understood—and Fain always looked forward to the moment he’d spot her dark outline silhouetted against the lights of their driveway fountain. He imagined her to be a seductive mermaid risen up from the sea and perched on a barnacle-encrusted jetty in wait for her sea captain to sail into port. Tonight there was no mermaid. The fountain was dark and stagnant—only the faint buzz of mosquitoes multiplying on the water’s surface. The house was a dimly lit shell of itself—an old codger on life support in a low budget hospital. Fain fumbled in the dark for his keys and let himself through the front door. He carried his duffel up the winding staircase and entered the bedroom, hoping the lamp would flick on and Whitley’d be waiting for him. She didn’t budge. She didn’t even say a word to him when he undressed, crawled into bed, and ran his calloused hand along the outside of her thigh. She gripped the pillow tighter and inched a little closer to her edge of the bed. Things were not good. Fain awoke with a dagger between his eyes. He had not had too much to drink the night before, but his neck and shoulders ached with the weight of Boss’s new set of directives. He reached for Whitley and found nothing but a section of wrinkled sheets and a cold pillow. A wave of panic suddenly jolted him upright in bed. Had he snuck in here and stolen her right out from under his nose? Had she packed her bags while he lay motionless and tiptoed off to her mother’s? Had she stumbled upon the bottle of muscle relaxers in the medicine cabinet and drawn herself one final, farewell bath? Fain jumped out of bed in a tangle of sheets and blanket, and stumbled through the door of the master bathroom. All was dry and sterile white. He shot down the
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