She looked better in her autopsy photograph than most of the women he had seen alive on the streets in Louisville.
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He was cruising along at fifty-five miles an hour without a traffic signal to delay him, and the nearest cars a quarter mile ahead or a quarter mile behind. The drivers couldn’t actually see him: he was just an assumption they made because a car couldn’t be moving along a public highway without a driver.
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In the history of the world, no man ever left his wife because some other woman was a better cook, or was more eager about setting the food on the table, or arranging it more attractively on the plate. The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, it’s a bit south of there.
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His strongest sensation had been relief: he was never again going to have to walk through the door of an unfamiliar building feeling the weight of a loaded pistol on his body, looking for a face.

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