Toad Puncher
My wife—Nancy Valente—had been "missing" for three months after some fake skiing accident. I spotted her at a bar.
She was draped over Finley Bennett's shoulder, laughing like she hadn't wrecked my life.
"Good thing you came up with this plan. I almost forgot what freedom felt like."
Her crew kept clinking glasses, asking when she planned to pop back up.
She glanced down. "Maybe in a week. I'll show up once he's lost his mind."
I stayed in the shadows, watching her bask in her little escape act. Then I grabbed my phone and called a buddy at the Vital Records Office.