Jowls quivered under the man’s weak chin, and Meredith noted the stained and frayed shirt of someone who spent a lot of time alone in dark rooms, sending out a better version of himself into the virtual world. His eyes were anxious and beseeching at her as though she should have a clear understanding of him and his life. Somehow, over the past hour and a half they’d been sitting next to each other—him playing video games and sharing his life story and her ignoring him the best she could—she had become his confessor and friend.

Meredith gave him what she hoped was an impartial-though-quasi-friendly smile. She reached for her purse and papers and rose from her chair. “Well. Nice talking with you.”

The man was lost in his own train of thought and seemed only slightly aware that Meredith was leaving. He shook his head, morose.

“To make a long story short,” he summed up, “I think my wife is trying to kill me.”