XIIJustine Anabeth Duchane pulled her Volvo onto Interstate 95 North. Horatio Albert Urban sat in the passenger seat watching the southern New England trees. She had two Poland Spring single serve bottles in the cup holder and the car was immaculate. In the glove compartment her cassettes were alphabetized and she had WEBE 108 FM on the radio, but low. Even the trunk was spotless, he had seen when he’d put his duffel bag with her suitcase. It was 5:05 PM Friday night.
“Um, nice car,” was all the writer could think to say.
“Thanks,” she wore loose jeans, black sneakers and black turtle necked sweater. She didn’t look at him.
Hal was in jeans and an old Mets shirt, something he’d picked up in a work promotion--that was most of his wardrobe. His sneakers were also scuffed. They had once be
