He thought about his adulterous wife and how much he wanted to kill her. He held up his hand to catch a few flakes, each one unique, and they melted on his palm. He shivered and checked his watch. Her class was almost over. Any minute now. He glanced up and down the sidewalk and smoothed his fingers over the stubble on his chin. He’d forgotten to shave that morning. He’d been forgetting a lot of things lately. Charlotte came strolling out of Randall Hall with a young male student, and Will’s breath froze in his lungs. She looked incredible—her coat was apple green and her cheeks were apple red. She was slender and beautiful with blue-green eyes and long auburn hair, and her young male student was tall and handsome and athletic-looking, a guy of about 20, and hell, they were laughing. They appeared to be exchanging cynical wry comments, and his wife seemed blissfully happy—and that shocked him, because he remembered a time when he used to make her laugh. Will liked it when his wife laughed; her whole face lit up, and she reminded him of the girl on the bus with the shapely legs who’d picked him up eight years ago, the girl with the prim mouth who’d spoken with such hopefulness and energy about her “embryonic career,”
