I found Dean Mercer two nights later at the bar on the main street of his town, exactly where the bartender said he would be. He was sitting at the end of the counter with a beer and a bowl of pretzels, and when I walked in, he looked up and did not look surprised.
"You are Grant," he said.
"Yes," I said. I sat down on the stool beside him.
He did not move. That was the first thing I noticed about him. He did not tighten up, he did not lean away, he did not do any of the things a guilty man does. He just looked at me with steady eyes and took a sip of his beer.
"You want a drink?" he asked.
"No," I said. "I want the truth about my wife."
He set the beer down. "She told me you were smart," he said. "She did not tell me you would come here."
"How long have you known her?"
He looked a
