The band was packing up when our song came on the radio in the empty hall, the same obscure jazz track Conan always played on late drives. I froze. Only Conan and I had known it was playing the night he died. Yet Charles hummed along, then quietly whispered, “God, I hear this and I’m right back on Route 7.” I hadn’t told him that song was on. No one had.

Later, in our room, his hands shook as he poured whiskey. I asked, “Why did you say that?” Silence stretched, thick and airless. Finally, he broke. The “drunk driver” hadn’t been a stranger. It had been Charles, driving Conan home after a fight, both of them drinking, both of them angry. He’d panicked, fled, and built his penance around me. Our marriage bed became a confession booth, and I lay there beside the man who had loved us both, and killed one of us.