The letter's waiting on the table in the foyer when I walk into the house. I don't need to read it to know what it says, but like the loser I am, I check it anyway just to be sure. I knew when I woke up this morning and strapped on the vest and my gun that she wasn't gonna be home when I walked in the door. She's been leaving me for a long time now. A guy can only go to sleep in an empty bed so many times before he starts expecting his wife won't be in it come morning. Too many damn excuses, too many late nights, too many times I had to scramble for things because my Gold Coast girl wants more than I can provide, but it's tough. Doesn't make it right to know all that. Ain't a tragedy either - she's always wanted more, and I've always known that, and we've been going round and round pretending like it ain't happening. Maybe that's why we fought so hard to try to make it work. Or at least I did.
I guess it just took longer than we both realized to let it go. I kinda feel like that poor guy in that old Eagles song, you know, the one she was lyin' to, and I can't help thinkin' that maybe that song fits too damn well. 'Cos I know Stella. Known her since we were kids. It's why she didn't want to come right out and tell me all these months, even though I knew. I'm a detective, after all - all the evidence was right there but I kept on hoping she'd remember what she had with me. She'll be looking for something greener before too long, and tryin' to pretend it makes her happy. And I'm probably gonna be that loser who'll be waitin' for her to come home, knowin' she ain't comin' back no matter what. I can't trust her, not that way, knowin' she'll leave me again, and I hate myself for wanting her anyway.