Eyes by Joanne Fluke

microwave was efficient. It seemed like a waste of time to cook from scratch for himself.
    Doug had learned how to cook from his grandmother. There were some things he prepared very well, like Tex-Mex tamales that would make your eyes water, fried chicken that was crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside, and mouthwatering barbecued ribs on the grill. Doug enjoyed cooking if he had a guest, but that didn’t happen very often. He could count the guests who’d come for dinner on the fingers of one hand.
    The night stretched out before him, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. There was nothing on television that interested him. There were no movies he wanted to rent. He was always welcome at the cop bar near the precinct, but he didn’t feel like lifting a brew with burned-out colleagues who had no life beyond the force. He’d been there, done that, and it was boring, listening to the same old stories again and again. The older guys talked about the big cases they’d had, the cases nobody else had been able to solve. They were desperate to find some pleasure in recalling a time when they were sharp and smart and useful.
    The younger guys were even more pathetic, delaying that moment when they’d have to go home to an empty apartment or a marriage that was heading for the rocks. It took a special type of woman to marry a cop, to live with the fear and uncertainty that went with the job. The wives never knew if their husbands would come home injured, or come home at all. It was almost like being a single parent; they could never count on that romantic anniversary dinner or the baby’s first birthday party. Telephones and pagers became their enemies. Because nothing took precedence over work, the wives had to take on the responsibilities of both mother and father; it wasn’t surprising so many of them bailed out.
    Jill could be a cop’s wife. She was strong, and she knew how the system worked. She would understand when he was on call, or if he had to work overtime. But she was married, and he really shouldn’t be thinking about her. Her husband was a very lucky man; Doug hoped he appreciated how special Jill was.
    He walked to the bookcase and took down Neil’s book. There was a color portrait on the back cover, and he sat down on the couch to stare at the man who’d married Jill. Neil was handsome, and he looked sophisticated. If Doug had been a movie director, he would have cast Neil Bradley as a distinguished college professor complete with tweed jacket, intense brown eyes, and a pipe that would have cost Doug a week’s paycheck. But Neil had money, now that his book was such a success. Jill had married a real winner. Still, it was odd that she never really talked about her husband.
    Doug had always been intrigued by puzzles, and he tried to put all the pieces he’d gathered into place. Jill hadn’t seen her husband’s book before it had been published. That meant they led separate lives; there were things they didn’t share. And Jill never mentioned her husband. It wasn’t that she kept her private and her professional lives totally separate. She had spoken of her parents on many occasions, and she’d told him stories about the friends she’d had in college. But she never talked about Neil unless someone asked her a direct question.
    Two negatives, but that didn’t necessarily spell trouble. Was there a third? Doug thought for a moment, and then he remembered that Jill kept a picture of her mother and father on her desk. There was also a picture of a family reunion, with aunts and uncles and cousins. But the last time Doug had been in her office, almost three years after she’d married Neil, he’d noticed that there was no picture of her husband.
    There was a fourth negative. Doug sighed as it came to him. Jill’s wonderful smile, the smile that had lit up a room in the past, had been missing for the better part of a