I knew for a fact, though Horace would never have fessed up, that that’s exactly what he’d been hoping for—to slip away. Of course I don’t mean he was hoping in the same way you hope that no one will notice the frayed hem of your skirt in church, or how old your car is if you keep it clean enough. Horace never gave a hoot about any of that. He’s been as solid as they come. Except for this one thing. What I call his “fascination” with death.