The rattly Buick heater blew lukewarm air against the fogged-up windshield with a high, metallic whistle.

“Tell me what the lawyer found out,” Sarah said.

“I’m not his wife,” I said.

Sarah stopped jangling her keys.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“The Las Vegas wedding was fake,” I said.

“He has a legal wife named Brenda living six miles away on Elm Street.”

Sarah reached across the vinyl console and took a firm hold of my wrist.