My name is Wynn Marlowe. I was twenty-nine when I married Grady Foyle at a restored estate twenty minutes outside Sablefort, on a warm Saturday in October.
Until that night I thought I understood the man I had married.
Grady was thirty-three. A project manager. Good at his job, quietly funny, and possessed of the kind of reputation that makes other people's mothers trust him inside four minutes.
He remembered birthdays. He rang my father every couple of weeks just to talk about the cricket, right up until my father died. He knew how I take my coffee.
He was the one people rang when a car would not start at midnight.
Four years together. Engaged fourteen months.
No dramatic break-ups. No scandals. No shouting in restaurants.
Our worst arguments were about wet towels on the bathroom floor and my habit of over-planning holidays.
I thought boring was beautiful. I thought safe was beautiful.
