He watches. Every now and then he gets out of his car and wanders briskly round the block and back, slowing as he passes their house, peering into the windows. The curtains have been drawn but there is a thick chink between them. Through it he can see a small section of their front room, dimly lit, the television occasionally casting a coloured glow which lights up a dishevelled throw across a sofa, food packaging strewn across a coffee table. Occupying the far wall are, he can make out, a triptych of three large photographs, black and white but too dark for him to see.
You can buy a copy here.