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night.
    “You play very nicely,” she said.
    “Thank you,” Michael said as he shot Paul a “thanks a lot” glance.
    “You don’t look like a piano player,” she continued. And he didn’t. His wide shoulders and rough hands were more akin to an athlete or lumberjack.
    “What’s a piano player look like?” Michael’s lip curled into a half smile.
    “I don’t know, different,” she said, sizing him up, “not like you.”
    Michael grinned and took a sip of his drink. “I’m sorry.”
    “Why?” She cocked her head.
    Michael held up his left hand, wiggling his ringed fourth finger.
    “That’s OK.” She held up a four-carat diamond wedding ring. “So am I.”
    Michael couldn’t hold in his laugh. “Thank you, anyway.”
    She looked at him a moment, holding his eye, smiled, and turned away.
    Paul watched the whole exchange, finished drying some glasses, and came back. “Why would you do that?”
    “Do what?”
    “What are you wearing that for?” Paul pointed at the wedding ring and smiled sympathetically. “Do you think maybe it’s time? You’ve honored her memory, Michael. Mary would want you to be happy, find someone, start a family.”
    “I don’t want to get into this tonight.”
    Paul leaned in. “I know you don’t. You don’t want to get into it any time Jeannie or I bring it up.”
    “Listen, you guys have a beautiful family. But family isn’t for everyone.”
    “Family is the most important thing, Michael. It’s the reason we do what we do. Those are your words, not mine.”
    Michael said nothing as he stared at his friend.
    “You can’t go through life alone, Michael.”
    “Hey, I have you,” Michael said, throwing off a half grin.
    “Yeah”—Busch put his hand on Michael’s shoulder—“but I’m not that good of a kisser.”
    “Don’t sell yourself short there, Peaches.”
    “Michael, what would Mary say if she saw you alone?”
    Michael smiled, finished off his drink, and grabbed his coat. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.” And he walked out the back door of the bar.

 
     

     
Chapter 4
     
    T he Kensico Reservoir raced toward her windshield like a storm on the horizon. She didn’t scream; in fact, she didn’t make a sound. Of course, inside her head was a different matter. The thoughts raced about like spilled mercury. She held tight to the steering wheel of the white Buick as if it would somehow miraculously break her fall, but deep down she knew it wouldn’t. She judged the height of the bridge to be about sixty feet and she had only crashed through half a second ago. She could make out the piece of green guardrail that was torn out of the bridge as it preceded her toward the water. She watched as it tumbled end over end like a knife thrown at a target.
    The three-second fall wouldn’t leave time for prayer…only regret and profound remorse for hiding behind landslides and obituaries. She regretted the subterfuge, although it was the only way to disappear. Or so she thought, but they had found her.
    The two Ford F-10 pickups had come upon her without headlights, silently stepping out of the darkness, racing up from behind. They flew past her on either side across the bridge, racing for the other side at 110 mph. And then their taillights lit, painting the nighttime red as their brakes locked up, smoke pouring from their tires. And they simultaneously fishtailed to a stop, nose to nose, blocking the far side of the bridge. Two men jumped from the trucks, rifles aimed at her as if she was some kind of criminal. She waited until the very last second, hoping this was some kind of mistake, that the men would jump back in their trucks and return to the legal side of life. But they didn’t. She was trapped and driving toward what she knew would be her death. Then she thought of escape. She waited until the last possible moment before throwing the wheel hard to the right, but the car didn’t respond as she expected—the right tire blew and she lost all