Free Love you to Death by Shannon K. Butcher

going to put on a show, and that she should play along, but she hadn’t expected anything like this.
    “I was hoping you could help us,” he said to the bartender.
    The man was in his fifties, wearing the clothes and hairstyle of a man half his age. A diamond winked in his left ear, and his shirt was unbuttoned down far enough to show off a thick thatch of chest hair—with gray roots.
    He glanced at the tip, smiled, and said, “What can I do for you?”
    “My lady and I were in here Friday. We met this hot young thing, but she left before I could get her number. Her name is Ashley.”
    The bartender glanced at Elise, then back to Trent. “I don’t catch many names. What does she look like?”
    Trent leaned closer, giving the man a conspiratorial smile. “A lot like my lady. Blond. Light eyes. Great tits. Maybe five and half feet in her fuck-me heels. She’s into threesomes.”
    The bartender’s brows lifted with interest and studied Elise more closely. His beady gaze made her squirm, but she held her ground and went along with Trent’s story. She even found the strength to plaster a vapid smile on her face.
    “I wish I could help you, man. I really do. Sorry.”
    “Were you here Friday?”
    “Yep. I’m always here. You might check with Gus when he comes in Wednesday. He was here Friday, too.”
    Trent nodded. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”
    The bartender left to see to another customer and Elise stared at Trent in irritation. “Threesomes?”
    “It was all I could think of. We came in together, and I wasn’t about to leave you unattended for every hairy-assed loser to hit on.”
    “The point of being here is to mingle. Ask questions. I don’t care how hairy their asses are if they were here Friday night.”
    “Fine. Mingle. Knock yourself out. Just stay where I can see you, okay? And don’t let your drink out of your sight.”
    “I’m not an idiot, Trent.”
    “Wearing that outfit here says differently.”
    That was it. Elise was done trying to reason with him. She was here to hunt for information, so she was damn well going to go hunting.
    Gary fed his guests, then bundled himself into his winter coat and pulled a knit hat down over his ears. He would be more comfortable if he put on gloves, but then he wouldn’t be able to feel Wendy’s skin under his fingertips.
    He unlocked the walk-in freezer and sat on the wooden stool beside his wife. He uncovered her head and found her frozen fingertips beneath the sheet.
    “I met someone today,” he told her. “Her name is Gloria. I think you’re going to like her.”
    Her fingers were stiff in his—not at all like they used to be before the accident. He remembered how supple and warm they were as they twined with his, as they slid over his body. How they turned the prettiest shade of pink when he tied her up.
    She had such beautiful hands, just like Gloria.
    Gary had always loved women’s hands. Some men preferred breasts or asses, but he liked hands. They were the outlet of a woman’s creativity, the way she cared for others. They could bring exquisite pleasure, and yet it took so little effort to cause them excruciating pain. So many nerve endings, so many delicate bones.
    Without her hands, a woman was helpless. Gary could see it in her eyes—that moment when she realized what she was missing, that she could no longer create, no longer feel, no longer fight. It was the same look Wendy had given him moments before her death. That one, single look of helpless pain had changed his life.
    “I drove by Gloria’s place on the way home. It’s a little duplex tucked back away from the main roads. She just moved in and hasn’t put up curtains yet. I saw her moving around inside, putting away groceries. There’s a kind of grace about her that you’re going to love.”
    Gary paused, even though he knew Wendy couldn’t respond. It was a habit he’d developed over the years they’d spent together. There was a natural cadence of conversation that