

**ISBN:** 9781370852680

### Already Gone

by

#### Myanne Shelley

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Myanne Shelley at Smashwords

Already Gone

Copyright © 2017 by Anne Shelley

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This ebook may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/myanne to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

# Chapter 1

Sometimes you can pinpoint the place in your life when paths diverge, when the ripples from one decision impact everything that follows. If you've got the fortitude, you can make the best of it. If you're lucky – or maybe unlucky – it's also world news.

News reports said the shooting only lasted 20 seconds. The suicide bomb blast, the frantic shouting man running crazily as he yanked the detonator on his vest, came within another minute. The fire inside the club roared immediately, devouring the gasoline they'd poured there, shooting flames through the roof and incinerating the whole building. It burned fast; firefighters had it out within a couple hours. Miraculous, in retrospect, how few people were killed and injured.

Rachel Voight, who had missed being a witness by just about an hour herself, recalled a much longer time frame. She was close enough to have heard the sirens racing towards the fire from her hotel room and then smelled smoke wafting through the evening air. Nervously watching it unfold on the TV news at first, as they obsessively played and replayed someone's grainy footage of the terrorist's rush into the night club. Next, a security feed from across the street of people running, screaming and ducking for cover from the gunfire.

Rachel had had an intuition, a bad feeling, about their whole trip. Of course, who doesn't make such a claim, right after they've found themselves thousands of miles from home on the night of a terrorist attack? But her misgivings had been real. It seemed a waste to fly that far, San Francisco to New York, for a five day vacation, even if it was on miles. She had felt as if standing on a precipice just before they departed, as if she would fall or be pushed toward something dangerous and unknown far below.

She had, in fact, mentioned something of this to Glen, but then laughed it off. They both did. Together, the way you do long married, aware of the each others' foibles. Rachel, always worried to leave home (the stove is off, the cats will be fine, sleeping the day away as usual). And Glen, desperately staving off late middle age with his insistence that new is better and fun is to be had always elsewhere (never mind he was most likely to fall asleep if the amazing, groundbreaking show ran past 10 o'clock).

That night – it would always be _that night_ in her mind, frightening, an absolute demarcation between what came before and what since – Rachel had fought her demons firmly at first. Sensibly, just as she had sensibly returned to the hotel to rest before their fashionably late dinner and **avant garde** theatre experience. They had parted ways with the most unmemorable cheek peck, her to gather her energy, he to sightsee, check out new places, drink in the city the way he did, like an impenetrable force that kept moving in the same direction, never wanting to slow down.

After a few minutes of watching, listening to the raw fear even from the professional young news people calling in their unedited reports, she had called him. Obviously just to make sure he was okay, and to remind him of their reservation time in case he was down there somewhere caught up in the drama. Possibly he had taken the subway off someplace else, hadn't even heard the news.

She got no answer. But still, Glen was like anyone of their generation, likely to have turned off his phone or unable to hear it in a crowd. So she had stayed put. Her own habit, her way of dealing with a situation, her own physics: an immovable object.

Oh, she had waited quietly and alone for far too long, that was apparent later. Stewing a bit, annoyed that he had pushed to take this trip and then gone off without her. His little punishment for her having needed a short nap – she asked for an hour, and away he went for two, then three, then four.

She had left a half dozen messages, the final one being that she was ordering room service for dinner since they had missed their reservation and she did not care to dine publicly alone. (Later, how quaint that would seem.)

The overpriced, over salted, pretentious meal, presented with a flourish from under its gleaming metal lid, went down like so much sawdust. Rachel had finished as much as she could manage, her parents' own child in abhorring waste even under trying circumstance. She had put the TV back on, thinking she would just settle in and watch a movie, a romance or comedy, something Glen would dislike but be obligated to watch with her when he finally returned.

But before she figured out how to launch the movies, the ongoing news story, still on all the regular channels, took over again. And he didn't return.

Sometime after 10 o'clock she phoned Hannah in Seattle. Glen's daughter, but whom she had known and loved for almost 20 years. Hannah, now an independent young woman in her mid-20s, had a level head, and of course she would be awake, it being early still on the west coast.

Their first conversation was brief, reasonable. Hannah had heard about the nightclub bombing? Of course, it was all over the news and social media. Her dad hadn't by any chance called her? No. Was she being silly to worry; it had been hours now and he had not shown up or called. Hannah, honest girl she was, here hesitated. It was odd, especially since they had plans. All the family knew of Glen's tendency to get caught up in whatever he was doing, to lose track of the time. But he was generally good, well trained by his first wife and again by Rachel, about at least checking in, offering some sort of plausible excuse.

He might easily have let his phone run out of juice, they speculated together. Or even had it stolen, he was wandering around New York City at night. Glen might think himself invincible, but he was in fact a 58 year old man with thinning salt and pepper hair and a slight limp from an old biking accident. He could have been mugged, had his phone and his laptop taken.

Just as a precaution, Rachel suggested, maybe she should call around to the local hospitals? Even saying this out loud filled her with dread. She was in a hotel room, Glen had the laptop, she could barely read the tiny screen on her phone. Hannah calmly agreed, gently offering to quickly google names and numbers and send her a list. In light of the attack, it could be slow going trying to track down someone who might or might not have been mugged or God forbid had a heart attack or something.

It was eleven o'clock when she finally left her room. Thankful for her nap and for still being on west coast time, she made her way down to the front desk, and presented her problem to the receptionist: husband now hours overdue, not picking up calls, hadn't been checked in to any local hospital, was there a message for her here possibly? Should she call the police?

The young man was trained to be gracious and polite, would have been anyway, was all the more so in light of the attack. Which was still playing out – the news feed, just visible on his computer screen below the counter was now showing clips from bystanders and talking head speculating on possible motives. He asked what Rachel was afraid to say: was it possible that her husband was in the club? They didn't even have a body count yet, but the first responders reported a scene of carnage and badly burned corpses.

Rachel held onto the counter to steady herself. "I can't imagine that he would have been," she said. "Not the sort of place he would go, I don't think. We were in the vicinity. Though I don't know the neighborhood very well."

"Well, the police will say someone isn't missing until it's been 24 hours," the young man explained. "But maybe, with this bombing and everything, they would circulate a picture? Do you have one I can send?"

It took her a confused minute, envisioning photo albums, to realize he meant an image on her phone. Trying not to feel like a complete luddite, she poked around to the camera icon. Her hands were shaking, she realized. Like her body knew before her mind would let her go there.

The hotel guy took the lead, got the cops on the phone, got the photo to the cops, and even offered to get a cab for her if she wanted to go try to get to the scene of the shooting and fire.

She shook her head at that – she was feeling panicky enough without actually being out in the night trying to duck between crime scene tape at a place where people had been shot and burned.

"Do you think he might have, um, met somebody," the fellow asked, eyes downcast and awkward, "I mean, sometimes people hook up in the city, or have affairs." He trailed off. "I mean is this a pattern like?"

"I don't think he would have dragged me across the country with him if he was having an affair," Rachel answered, confident of that much at least. A middle aged woman who had joined her at the counter snickered at this, and the bit of humor restored her. How could something bad have happened if we can stand in this ornate lobby and joke about husbands and affairs?

She returned to her room, the receptionist assuring her he would call with any news. Rachel phoned Hannah, apologetic and feeling oddly guilty, as if the fact she was making the call implicated her as well. A good night's sleep would help, they told each other.

But Rachel lay in the dark room, eyes blinking awake every few minutes, tracking the lights and shadows on the windows and walls. Mind buzzing, furious at Glen, and then teary, imagining him having been punched and robbed, stumbling around without his ID. Sometime after 2 am, she phoned around to the hospitals again. Nothing, no news, just overnight staff impatient with their call volume. People all over the planet, apparently, phoning in about imaginary terrorist victims. But he's really missing, she pleaded. We're from out of town.

Then she opened a bottle of scotch from the mini-bar and downed it like medicine. Not like she would be driving and she did need some sleep. If Glen showed up to find her drunk and wasting money on the in room items, so be it.

The rest of the night crept by. Rachel knew some time had passed from her groggy half awake dreams. Images of Glen, of the two of them running through the city streets, crowding into a cab already filled with passengers, tumbling headfirst down the yawning chasm of the subway entrance in front of their hotel.

She lay there in the morning finally, light streaming into the room, wishing she could just rest there peacefully and somehow erase the past two days, take back the whole trip, arise calmly in the comfort of their bedroom back home, Glen snoozing lightly beside her and the cats curled at their feet. Or at least find that he had tiptoed in and found her sleeping, and quietly stretched out on the couch.

No and no. Exhaustion competed with adrenaline from then on. Rachel almost stood outside herself watching, as she became assertive and demanding. She went to the site, she got in the faces of the cops, she made herself be taken seriously. And learned that there were in fact numerous unidentified bodies.

A nearby hotel had dedicated a conference room to victims' families, including the fairly sizeable contingent with a missing person and no info. They self segregated, those who still had hope and those who didn't, whose people had been identified. The room buzzed with hushed exchanges, frustrated exclamations on phones, bitter weeping. Now and then the front door would open, and loud voices cried out, reporters, others not allowed entrance. As though it was a place you could possibly want to be.

Most of the people she sat waiting with were in pairs, and most were her own age or older, with missing adult children. That gave her hope, though she kept it to herself – she could hardly own up to feeling relief that it was a club for young people, that most of the victims were young.

She fielded dozens of calls. Back and forth with Hannah, and with Glen's brother Nick. Nick said he would call around to some of Glen's friends for her, just casual, just to check in. Hannah checked in with her mom, and even she said she'd try to think of names of anyone he might have contacted, people from way back. Casey, Glen's son, kept calling, as if he thought she would keep the news from him if Glen had been located. "But I don't understand. I mean where is he? Why don't you know where he is?"

Rachel did her best to placate him. Casey had always been a little whiney, a little too entitled. Asking where his father was just after she had said the exact words, "we still don't know where he is" was par for the course. She spoke to him gently, and reminded herself that he didn't mean to make her feel guilty. Her feelings were irrelevant to him, always had been.

Food appeared. People pushed the small sandwiches toward each other, with murmurs about keeping up strength. Rachel had a bit of something; food had pretty much lost its taste though. She felt her heart racing and wondered if she would have a heart attack. Good place for it, with first responders still in and out. She dozed in a chair at one point, despite the cacophony around her.

It was late in the day when she viewed the back up tape from the bar. The fire had shorted out the cameras, but they had a company somewhere that backed up the feed to the cloud. A dozen or more of them gathered to see the footage. She found herself holding the hand of a complete stranger, one of the moms missing a son, who hugged her close when she cried out.

Glen, clearly Glen, was visible in the far right of the screen, belly up to the bar. The timestamp was minutes before the shooting.

If that wasn't enough, the police escorted in the pretty bartender visible in the security feed. She looked barely old enough to drink herself, and overwhelmed. Tears streaked down her face and her lips trembled as she spoke, facing the anxious group of them who recognized their people.

She looked right at Rachel. "I served him, yes," she said. "He was polite. He left a good tip."

And – she could barely say it, but whispered that a few of the customers on that side of the bar had ducked and tried to hide when the shooting began. They had crawled as a group through the side door. She pointed it out. That door led into the nightclub.

She had stayed put, frozen, she said, unable to move from the smooth floor behind the bar where she had dived down, knees bruised and hands covering her head. "I thought I was going to die," she whispered. "I thought they were the smart ones." It had taken two other customers to lift her off the floor, after, when the bomb went off, to convince her that she was unhurt and safe and needed to go outside away from the fire.

Time dissolved.

After someone brought back his jacket, smelling of smoke but still clearly his, Rachel quietly left out the back door. Somebody must have helped her to her hotel. The jacket had been found on the floor of the bar.

Hannah arrived, and Rachel couldn't imagine how she had gotten herself on a plane and across the country so fast. Or at all. She had fully lost track of time and sat in a chair with Hannah draped across her lap sobbing. She tried to cry but all she could do was wonder how it was possible for it to be tomorrow already instead of today.

The authorities couldn't identify all the burnt bodies. Rachel and Hannah were left with Glen's smoky jacket, and of course his other stuff from the hotel. Another set of clothes, his dress shirt that he meant to put on that night, shaving stuff. The Sonicare toothbrush and charger he insisted on bringing even for a short trip.

His phone and laptop were gone, though. Incinerated, presumably. Somehow the idea of a computer being burnt up in a fire was reasonable in a way that a human was not.

Strangers had put documents before them. Forms, there were forms available for such a thing, was that possible? She had functioned somehow, though with little memory of what she had said and done. Hannah had to go home. There was no reason for Rachel to stay either. She'd hardly thought of the cats, where usually she worried about them on their own, just a once a day visit from the neighbor. Hannah had been in touch with the airline, and arranged for them to fly together to San Francisco.

Casey came up from Santa Cruz, and they had dinner together, to discuss the service. And, as Hannah delicately put it, what comes next. In the face of their shared tragedy, no one wanted to start making claims, but Rachel realized, like seeing dim lights through fog, that there were questions of property.

Going to a restaurant seemed too difficult yet, as did cooking. Rachel had Indian food delivered, heaps of it, enough for all of them and days of leftovers. Casey snuck bits of chicken under the table for the cats, and Rachel couldn't even bring herself to stop him.

She and Casey were on Glen's health plan. Could they stay on a plan for a person who no longer existed? She didn't work enough hours now to get on her workplace plan, and anyway, Glen's had covered dependents. How long would it take to get on the Covered California plan, could she figure out the confusing website when she could barely get herself dressed in the morning? What about Casey?

Without being aware of the time passing, they were Skyping with Nick, Uncle Nickel, as the kids still called him. Stoic, like Glen, Nick was trying to step in, be a father figure, Rachel realized. Glen always treated him like a kid, and she kind of did too, although he was only a couple years younger than she was.

But now his voice came choppy, a beat behind his pixeled image, discussing an immediate concern – that with no body the whole death bureaucracy was messed up. Rachel turned away, choking back a wholly inappropriate laugh. Like that was the problem with this whole situation.

She excused herself and went into the bathroom. A moment alone – there had not been many of those. She stared at her face in the mirror. Wide set hazel eyes barely a ring around her huge black pupils, fear almost pulsating from them. Light brown hair styled neatly, cut just above her shoulders and angled to frame her face, a smattering of fine white hairs a contrast to the childlike freckles across her nose and cheeks. Light lines across her forehead and now dark bags below her eyes – she looked both tired and like she'd been in a fight.

She heard the cats outside the door, Bella's high pitched mew. Who knows how long she'd been in there. Both cats had been anxious and needy, the way they always were when she and Glen had left them for more than a day. She was back, but they knew things weren't right. Glen wasn't home. Rachel couldn't sleep.

The kids were in the kitchen now, the computer off. The kitchen clean and neater than normal – everything put away from before they left for New York.

Hannah had to go to the airport; Casey would drop her there on his way home.

"Did we talk about the will?" Rachel asked. They had signed off on some boilerplate thing back when they got married. It basically left everything to the surviving spouse, but they had never updated it or discussed leaving particular things to the kids or to Rachel's nieces.

"We saw it," Hannah said gently. "Nick had a copy, he was a witness."

"But I want you both to have his things, I mean things of his that you'd want, that have meaning to you. Anything you need. And your childhood things."

"Mom has that stuff," Casey said. He stood, jacket in one hand, keys jangling in the other.

But Hannah reached over to hug her close. "Thank you. We'll go through things later, when we're back for the memorial."

"We were going to start college funds for your kids," Rachel exclaimed. "When you have them, or if, we didn't mean to pressure you, but I will, I still will," she faded out.

Hannah had a plane to catch. Glen's friend Harv was coming by in the morning to help her sort things out. The kids left, and she was alone.

# Chapter 2

Rachel took additional time off from work. It just took one call, one hushed hoarse voiced conversation with her supervisor, who started crying herself. Take what you need, oh my God, I heard about it but I didn't think, oh I'm so sorry.

She had the sort of job where she could easily extend another week after a long weekend, fortunately. Her work was not exactly mission critical these days. Especially since she had cut back her hours, or rather not asked for hours back that got cut back during the recession. She worked in human resources, the back end of the HMO Kaiser, whose motto was 'thrive.' Good thing she had colleagues who could fill in her hours – her emotion-laden voice and disturbing lack of focus would not help a person in need, that was for sure.

Glen's job needed him much more urgently. Ironically enough. He managed investment funds and portfolios, he had needy clients and the market to follow and pressing transactions. People expected him to be watching the Dow from the second it opened in New York, and to track all kinds of after hours data that he had explained but didn't really make sense to Rachel. As in why are you working at 8 PM when nothing will have changed greatly by the next morning, or the next week for that matter.

Except sometimes it did change, and fortunes could be made or lost.

Or, for example, you could set foot in the wrong place, wrong time and lose your own fortune – entirely.

She had spoken to someone in Glen's office back on, Monday was it? The days were a blur. Back before anything was definite, back when she was just trying to see if he had phoned in. They hardly used the phones there, it had been a hunt to track someone down to actually talk to, and the young woman had no idea of Glen's schedule. She hadn't left a message then, knowing Glen's concern of looking anything less than 110% efficient and on board. Asking his boss have you seen my missing husband would reflect badly on him. Said boss was all of 35, single, had been known to make inappropriate jokes about senility in the direction of Glen and his closest associates, who had been with the firm for decades rather than months.

Harv had been in touch since then, she knew. Harv, Glen's closest friend, who had himself left the industry a decade ago, but who still knew who to call. A large flower arrangement had been delivered, courtesy of the firm, with a generic message of sympathy for her loss. The needy clients were someone else's problem from here on out; how simply this faceless mass that had been a tangential part of her life for so long were no longer.

Rachel sat now, leaning back on the couch in an imitation of relaxation, unsure what to do. She fingered the card that had been tucked into the arrangement, a tasteful image of an orchid, and wondered if whoever picked it had ever met Glen. Probably they just left it to the florist. There really wasn't an appropriate image or message for her particular situation. Sorry for the misguided terrorists who thought they were taking out an Israeli rock band and got the day wrong.

That was the theory so far anyway. Rachel was relieved to be away from New York City. Sitting alone in their house with the cloying smell of the new flowers overlaying the slight decay from the ones the neighbors had brought earlier, at least she was spared the noise and chaos of the ongoing investigation.

The cable news channels still cycled through the footage, the talking heads with their theories, a grainy ISIS video of questionable authenticity, status updates on the injured, tearful interviews with grieving family members. The investigators, the newspeople, just doing their jobs, spinning through the stages of this crisis and then onto the next.

Was Rachel failing to hold up her end of the bargain, holed up here at home and ignoring her phone? There was a part of her that felt guilty for not being on hand: what if they miraculously found Glen amongst the rubble and she wasn't there to hold his hand? Why was she keeping her grief quiet when the whole nation felt entitled to share it? In the ongoing narrative, he was "the oldest victim, an investment manager tourist from California." God, he would hate that description.

Instead she took calls from a very few select people. Her close friend Carol, who checked in every day and let Rachel set the tone, accepted her at whatever stage of grief she happened to find herself at the moment. Tricia from work. Glen's buddy Harv, also calling frequently with kind words as well as updates on the investigation. His brother Nick, who had pretty much appointed himself the family spokesperson.

And the kids, of course, though she dreaded those calls. With everyone else, she was the victim, but with Hannah and Casey she needed to be both sympathetic and strong.

Minx and Bella were her constant companions, competing for lap space when she sat and snaking gracefully in her wake when she moved room to room. They missed Glen too, that was clear. Bella in particular kept whipping her ears toward the door, alert to the sounds of his heavy step and key. But they at least enjoyed having her fully at their disposal.

Rachel didn't understand people who thought animals lacked emotions, who treated them like things rather than loving individuals. Or who plain didn't love animals. Not having pets would be like deciding not to bother with food in the house, Rachel thought. Unimaginable. The few times she had lived like that – dorm life in college, a brief unsettled time in her late 20s, those sad weeks after a beloved cat had died – felt like half a life. Like something to be gotten through until one's full life returned.

Maybe that's how she felt now, it occurred to her. She felt her mouth curve into an unfamiliar smile – would Glen be flattered or insulted to be compared to a beloved missing cat?

There was a dog, back there in New York, a large lab mix. His person had worked at the bar; he had been killed in the initial shooting. And the dog kept trying to find him there, pulling on his leash back toward the place, keening and howling, searching for his man. Rachel had watched the story of this dog, the close ups of his sad confused canine face, and found herself sobbing uncontrollably. Wracked with the grief she couldn't fully face herself, it seemed.

These early days, she vacillated amongst the earlier stages of loss without much logic or sense. Got halfway through an internet quiz on the thing before clicking off in disgust. Sat on the couch, bookended by the cats, her mind bobbing between anger and denial, her face expressionless.

The only feelings she could conger up were from decades old memories, back when she and Glen first met. Only weeks after they had found each other, they had spent whole sparkling evenings just talking and laughing and then tumbling into bed, young and fresh and energized. But his prior life intruded, his kids (Hannah then 6 and Casey almost 4) and ex-wife still a huge drain on his attention. Plus he did that thing where he just seemed to drift away, and Rachel wasn't used to it yet.

So she had decided to cool things down. Not to break up, exactly – how could they, they had not yet made declarations of being together. She just let him know she wasn't ready to commit, and that it was clear he wasn't ready for anything with her either, that he may be divorced but was still attached to his wife. And Glen, who had been up front about having kids and his determination to stay part of their lives, reacted angrily. Pointed out that perhaps she was the one not ready for something, namely an adult life that included young children.

The angry words held some truth, Rachel could admit now. She had been 35 then, okay with not having children and enjoying the many activities of single life in the city. Sure, she craved an attractive loving partner, who didn't, but a sudden built in family was daunting indeed.

They had lived in the same neighborhood in upper Church. She had been in her relatively inexpensive flat for awhile, as the area shifted upwards economically with the influx of young dot com workers, that earlier tech boom. He had bought a place after his divorce, just ahead of the curve.

The thing is, she knew she would run into him. They both took the streetcar, they both liked the Real Foods. His kids often brought the family dog when they visited on weekends and walked her enthusiastically throughout the neighborhood. And after just a couple weeks of avoidance, she couldn't take in anymore. She felt an emptiness that transcended anything else, and she made it a point to locate him. Just to say hello, to see if it was all in her head or if something big and genuine was actually there between them.

And Glen sought her out as well. He walked toward her on the street outside her house on one of those unusually warm summer evenings. Alone, no kids or dog. She saw him, saw his eyes light up and the smile he couldn't contain as she felt herself light up like that too. Inward and outward. Embracing outside her front door like he was a soldier come home from war, they broke apart, laughed, clasped each other again.

She had felt tears in her eyes, happy tears, as she pulled him inside with her. Warm relief washing over her and that totally in love feeling where nothing else mattered, nothing else could matter. He was sorry, he wouldn't push the kids on her until she was ready, and she was sorrier still, of course he had other obligations in his life and she respected him for his dedication to his kids and his work.

Rachel felt warmed for a moment, as if she was leaning back in his arms on that big soft sofa, the last muted pinkish light from the setting sun still filtering in. And then a messy tear dropped, chin to chest, and the present broke back in like an angry intruder. She closed her eyes, shook her head. Imagined that Glen was just delayed on a flight, as had happened so often over the years. He would show up, riled and annoyed, hungry whatever the hour, anxious to check his messages. But then after an hour or so, be back to her too, pull her close, crowd together with her and the animals, ready to laugh and exchange stories about their days.

Now, now – Rachel stood, newly energized with anger – never again. How could he, how could he have chosen to crawl off into that room seconds from a fatal fire, when he would have survived just by staying put on the floor? Dammit, Glen, always having to make a move. Did he even think of her and the kids when he scrambled across the floor and through that wretched door? She moved into the kitchen, and started scrubbing the sink. It wasn't that dirty, but the work gave her something to do, an outlet for her brief rage.

He'd never set things right with the kids, Rachel thought, another obsessive mental track playing in her head. Here Hannah had come and rescued her, stepped up in all the right ways, truly mature in a way you can only be after losing a parent. But the last few discussions she'd had with her dad concerned his hectoring her that she was working too much, to the detriment of getting out and enjoying life as a young adult. Also finding a boyfriend was implied though not always directly stated.

Hannah had tried to tell him that she liked her work, that people now didn't really make the distinction between work and not work the way he did, the way of old people. She was friends with her co-workers, and for all the times she checked in from home, they regularly went off and had fun together in the middle of the day. As for email at all hours, he was one to talk.

Glen had been mad at Casey too, but that was par for the course. Hannah took after her dad, and he saw her flaws as reflections of his own, things he could help her fix. While Casey was like his mom. Creative, fun, spontaneous, but not so good at completing a goal, anything from finishing college to showing up for dinner on time. At 24, he still seemed more like the video game playing slacker who spent summers in the converted attic room than an actual adult, and Glen was perturbed every time he lost a job. Which was pretty often, although to be fair it was more often that he quit than was fired.

He actually seemed to have found some stability recently. Living with roommates rather than crashing with either parent, that was good, and his work suited him – something gaming oriented, helping develop the CGI sets for online games in the works. The argument was that it was sporadic and didn't pay well, so Casey was constantly broke.

Casey himself didn't seem to particularly mind, either asking for money or doing without. But to Glen, it was an irritation. He felt one should either work hard and get paid well for it, as he did, or at least commit to music or art or something. If accepting poverty, to do so as part of a creative life. (Needless to say, Glen did not see any artistic value in the sharp graphic images that ended up as background on games on peoples' pads and cell phones.)

She wondered, vaguely, when or if the obligation she felt towards Casey would stop. She felt she was the balance between that enabling his mother Bethany did – always bailing him out and thus preventing him from maturing – and Glen's rather too tough love. They'd had a few meandering conversations over the years, she and Casey, where Rachel felt like she'd gotten the stepmother thing down. Felt proud that the boy had been comfortable turning to her. A more cynical view might have been that he was softening her up to urge his dad's lenience or angle toward a future loan, but she thought those exchanges had been real.

Now, though, what happens once he has taken the time to process it all. Would he have any need at all for her in his busy scattered life? Or would he test her, come back with demands, make claims on the assets she and Glen had built together?

Her phone trilled: Harv.

"Hi," she said, knowing he would know she was home and not otherwise occupied.

They exchanged their usual polite inquiries. Her sudden new widowhood surely higher on the grief scale, but he was sad too, he'd lost one of his closest friends.

"Here's the thing," he said next. "I got through to that guy again, the one heading the investigating team." Harv paused, drawing a long ragged breath. "He says they don't think they can ID all the bodies. They need to get moving on, you know, tearing down the structure, rebuilding. Safety issues."

Rachel exhaled sharply. "Everybody's safe now, everybody who's not dead."

"No, he meant toxic fumes, that sort of thing. This guy's been on the job since 9/11, they're concerned about what the workers are breathing in and everything. So as far as having a funeral..."

"We'll just have the service," Rachel interrupted. "That matters more to me and the kids. Glen, I think we had a big laugh about the whole thing after his father died. I mean not laugh, but he had to pick out a casket and they have all this crazy stuff, glossy interiors and types of wood, and they're ridiculously expensive, just to be put in the ground."

Harv gave a barely audible chuckle. "He told me about that too. And he was pissed that his mom wanted all the religious stuff, the hymns and singing when his father wasn't religious."

"Yes, no singing!" Rachel had at first felt totally lost in planning the service. But as she had talked to friends and family, the elements fell easily into place. Not formal, not stuffy, more exchanging stories than pre-ordained words. Good food, and plenty of it. Comfort for those left behind.

# Chapter 3

Six months had passed.

In a lot of ways, Rachel felt no time all had gone by, that her internal calendar was paused in March or at least somewhere early in the year. Yet it was autumn. The warmest time of year in Northern California, climate change bringing forth wretchedly hot days in the valley and unusual warmth even at the coast.

Baseball season was winding down; Glen always got a bit antsy this time of year, worried about the playoffs no matter how well or badly his beloved Giants were doing. Rachel – who had a mild interest in the team but kind of preferred hearing the game on the radio, background rather than all consuming – had begun to follow the team as if somehow on his behalf.

Actually, she had any number of things she did now, a bit weird and ritualistic, as if she needed to live out pieces of Glen's life now without him. She followed the market more carefully than she ever had (and oh, he would have worried over the recent corrections). She even undertook her own trades, small time, not risking the 401ks or anything, but just being alert to trends. Looking, as he used to, for deals.

At home, she played with the cats more. Used to be, she was feeder and chief cuddler, most content curled up with one or both and a good book. While Glen had liked to get them riled up, dashing about the house wild eyed, Minx ducking behind doors to leap out as if their shoes were prey. The girls were middle aged now, as Rachel was. No one that eager to run around, but exercise more important than ever.

She talked to them frequently as well. She and Glen had often kept a running dialogue with them, assuring them dinner was on the way or pointing out birds outside the window. Sometimes speaking for the cats, voicing their opinions and preferences aloud, entertaining or occasionally a passive aggressive form of disagreement. But those were silly, trivialities, Rachel thought now. She told Bella directly, gazing into her sweet tabby face, "We didn't really argue, did we, baby? He never raised his voice to either of us."

Bella stared back, blinking with quiet affection.

"He kept you both in plenty of kibble. Made sure my retirement was well provided for, that the house would be paid off..." Rachel trailed off. She didn't want make herself sad just now, or sadder than she might naturally be sitting there, home from work and alone with the cats, the whole evening stretching blankly before her. It's not that she and Glen had done very much on a standard evening mid-week. Just that they would have done whatever it was, listen to the game, read, catch up on a TV series, together.

Resolutely, she cleaned up from dinner, putting everything away, and scrubbing down the counters. With only her and the cats, there was no one else to blame a mess on. Who would have ever thought she would miss seeing a large spoon in the sink, drippy with un-rinsed ice cream? Or finding she had half what she expected in a container, because Glen had eaten the rest for a snack?

At first, she had made her meals in sad little single portions, and chosen her particular favorite foods, never mind the expense. Staying civilized, trying somehow for small rewards to get her through the days. Lately she had taken to cooking the way she used to, the way they had together, even some of Glen's favorite dishes. Enough for the two of them made enough for two dinners and a lunch for her, and she lazily enjoyed the ease of nuking the stuff on the second night. Didn't care it was a repeat – in fact it was oddly comforting, as if she was eating his portions in his place.

There were a good many hours left before she could reasonably go to bed, even allowing time to read. But before it could get to her, before she could focus on the time, the emptiness of the time, she put on the TV news and the game on the radio, plus scrolled through the vast array of choices on Comcast, seeking one of several shows she was keeping up with, multiple episodes at a time.

Choosing one set in Europe during World War II, Rachel took note how it would appeal to both of them. Good writing, well developed characters, motivation for action rather than loud nonstop plot movement, but also the drama of the war, action and details of historical accuracy that Glen would appreciate. Would have.

Despite her better intentions, she found herself, as she often did, having quiet imaginary conversations with Glen. Nothing major, just chats about the show, cute behaviors of the cats. Somehow keeping it at a casual level made this seem safe, or less than nuts. As opposed to wailing about how she missed him.

Later, lying in bed and waiting patiently to lose herself to an unsettled sleep, she allowed some memories to stream by. Simply remembering, calling it that and not pretending he was there in the room to talk to her, not hugging a pillow as if it was him. Sometimes she recalled special events, trips they had taken. That week in Maui, where he'd been so enamoured of the landscape he'd barely had a thought for work. He had insisted on rising early, taking strenuous hikes in search of the best views. Or earlier times, camping trips to the Sierras with the kids.

Tonight she just replayed familiar scenes from home. Those were a more satisfying, she thought, proof they hadn't needed to go somewhere special to share a special time together. A standard happy track: the two of them racing to clean up and get dinner started before Hannah was due to arrive at the airport. Glen chopping the vegetables she had laid out like a master chef, a veggie meal in progress, while Rachel made the bed in the guest room. The smell of brownies baking in the oven, Hannah's childhood favorites, and the cats darting around with full awareness that something was up. Joking that they didn't want her stuck on a delayed flight but maybe 15 minutes late would allow them time to get dinner on the table.

Rachel didn't remember falling asleep, but morning was upon her, so clearly she had. She scanned her memory for dreams, but nothing remained beyond vague images about work. Being frustrated with the computer system slowing down, tapping keys without response. No point in analyzing those sort of dreams, that was just an exaggerated version of what actually happened when the system got busy.

She stayed in bed a few more minutes, despite the growing chorus of displeasure from the cats, who knew when it was breakfast time. It's just that she was a bit disappointed in her subconscious. People had told her – actual people in the support group she had gone to a few times, not just crazy internet posters – that their spouses had returned to them in dreams. Offered gentle reassurance that they were in a good place, that it was okay for the partner to move on. Or just carried out some regular shared activities, the kind of things Rachel put herself to sleep with remembering. These were the sorts of things she wished she could relive, even briefly in dreams, and it made her sad that she couldn't even achieve that much.

Minx had settled down again at her feet, but Bella hopped back up and stood right next to her head, mewing in that high pitch that was both cute and impossible to ignore. Her whiskers brushed her face, and when Rachel cracked open an eye, Bella squeaked in delight.

Minx roused herself when Rachel climbed out of bed, and both of them danced through the morning routine of bathroom and shower and dressing and finally, finally getting fed. An inevitable part of the routine: each cat ate enthusiastically from her bowl, and then Bella butted her head into Minx's bowl, and Minx humbly retreated to chew from Bella's. Then despite all the demands and commotion, each cat wandered off to wash her paws and face, leaving half the food uneaten.

Rachel regularly mentioned their behavior, used them as examples, when she talked to people at Maddie's, the SPCA adoption center. She had been volunteering there for several years now, just a couple hour shift each week, but tremendously rewarding hours.

Back when her work schedule had first opened up, Casey had still been living with them. She hadn't really needed to be on hand, but it seemed right, plus there was more general housework with three of them. She had taken a bit obsessively to an expanded exercise routine. And, not coincidentally, had been helping her widowed mother clear out her house and adjust to a diminished life in a senior center, post heart bypass and hobbled by arthritis.

A few years later, though, Casey was living elsewhere, her mom had passed peacefully after her brief final decline, and Rachel was just not going to manage any more time in a Pilates workout. She scheduled regular Fridays off, and went through the complicated volunteer training with the SF SPCA.

Rachel's true nature, she thought, directed her to work with animals. She had considered it pretty seriously, way back when. Except that even dissecting a worm in Biology class left her clammy and shaking. She was smart, but maybe smart enough to know she didn't quite have what it took to be a doctor, even an animal doctor. And as for being an assistant of some sort in that world – she was maybe just too fragile to face an animal in pain.

She could be smooth, competent, calm with a person in crisis, much more so than with even a small issue with an animal. Just from bringing her own pets in, she recognized that her emotional state would probably not be a good one for either a pet or pet's friend. Thus the career in HR.

But the volunteer work didn't require her to deal with medical issues, at least in the shifts she undertook. The only pain was loneliness on the part of the homeless kitties, and she truly could help a scared or lonely cat.

Maddie's wasn't a typical shelter. The dogs socialized in good sized areas. The cats lounged in "condos," large rooms with built in climbing shelves and tucked away hiding places. The shy ones could cuddle up on a cushion or even hide under a soft towel, while the bold were free to look out the windows at passersby or birds.

There was an elaborate set of rules for visiting and showing the cats to potential adopters, a computerized system for logging visits and comments on the cats, touch screens with up-to-date info for the public – name, age, coloring, clever descriptions of their personalities. Staff were on hand to deal with anything complicated, from medical concerns to obnoxious human visitors, and they finished out the adoption process. Rachel's role was to help make a match with people interested in adopting, and to otherwise sit with the kitties.

You might think it would be depressing, and it could be for those sad cases hard to place, she would admit. But over time, coming back week after week and seeing the homeless animals come and then leave with their happy new owners, it was uplifting. Even in the depths of her worst days, she felt better after an afternoon petting a bunch of sweet cats and kittens.

Best of all, now, it occurred to Rachel, this was a place she could be competent and anonymous. A helpful lady in a volunteer apron, knowledgeable about cat behavior, and not _her_ , the tragic widow. People came and went there. One or two of her fellow volunteers knew the story, but even the young volunteer coordinator had started just this summer, knew her only as helpful Rachel V. As for the visitors to the shelter – from super organized people with their criteria spelled out to sad couples that had recently lost their cat to bored nannies entertaining their charges – not a one had any interest in Rachel's back story.

Which was a refreshing change from those looks, those hushed voices. The conversations that paused as she approached, the nervous frowns replaced by too wide smiles as people who did know sought out the right things to say. At some point, she knew now for future reference, there just is no right thing. You just be a friend, you don't have to dwell on it.

Rachel herself did not obsessively follow the ongoing investigation of the terrorist cell, the one that carried out the suicide bombing. There were certainly survivors and family members who did – she made note of the highlights via the group's listserv. But otherwise, she'd rather remember Glen from how he was, not from that tragic night.

This morning, after running errands and exercising, she did allow herself a limited time of memories, of looking back. Facebook this time, simply clicking back through her own postings. Glen had maintained an account, just to be able to say he had one, not be a fuddy duddy to the hipsters at work. But he'd rarely done much besides "like" interesting articles, mostly having to do with the economy. After discussing it with the kids, she had taken his profile down, and okayed them to go ahead and delete his other online stuff. Her own timeline, though, was a wealth of photos and joyous memories.

She had never gotten the selfie thing down, so many of the pictures featured Glen. Well, the cats and Glen. Her attempts at witty observations, silly shots and group photos from family gatherings, unexpected tableaus from vacations. She had a bunch from when the cats were new – Bella skittish and frisky and then year old Bella getting acquainted with still a kitten Minx. Rachel and Glen and the cats in every combination. She blinked back tears at a favorite shot of Glen coaxing little Minx to eat, their heads side by side in front of her dish.

He had been so sweet with them. Glen was an animal person too, that was one of the first things she knew about him. She had talked to him about his dog back in the their old neighborhood in the city before they'd even exchanged names. He had grown up with both cats and dogs, but been without cats during his first marriage, his ex allergic. How fast he had taken to the sweet shy cat she'd had at the time. What a delight it had been bringing the children to help pick out their first cat as a family, their lovely gray and white Ember.

Rachel stood up from the computer. Just recalled those times, didn't actually dig out the old fashioned photo album. She let the golden glow from the memories surround her, make her smile, as she put on her grungy jeans and pocketed her name badge for the shelter.

At Maddie's there was a steady flow of activity to keep her occupied. Mind, body and emotion, all got a gentle workout, a relief to simply flow. She logged in, grabbed a set of keys and some toys, and checked the front. Another volunteer greeted her, said it was just the two of them available so far.

The open lobby was welcoming. The first windows you saw generally featured frisky cats and then the cutest kittens right there front and center. To the left were staffers ready to get the adoptions going in an open office arrangement, and beyond that, the dogs. People hurried through, a woman dressed in scrubs and then a guy leading a sweet little pit mix to the doorway that led to the medical facilities. There was a general hum of activity, a few barks, cheerful voices, but it wasn't crazy loud. Rachel had been at places where the first thing you heard were howls and mournful meows; this wasn't that way at all.

An older woman was seated, filling out her paperwork, and a few other visitors were already wandering the numbered hallways with the cat condos. Rachel checked the list to see who all was available on the adoption floor. Week to week it changed, happily. There were still some kittens, mostly older ones – these were generally the most popular and the first to find a home. A couple bonded pairs, cat who had come in together and needed to be adopted out as a unit. One pair was super shy to boot. They were very sweet, but would probably be here awhile. Otherwise a standard mix of ages and temperaments.

Rachel had a quick conversation with a young couple who were basically window shopping, apologetic that they weren't allowed to have pets at their place.

Then she helped the lady who had been filling out her form. Rachel could tell she was a veteran cat person with a moment's conversation. She had lost a beloved cat, and allowed several months of mourning. Always the way to go, Rachel assured her, commiserating on her loss. She had done her research and had three adult kitties she wanted to meet, each one a young male.

Rachel unlocked the first door and tsked her lips quietly to reassure the big guy, who was crouched on the floor. He looked like he was trying to shrink into invisibility. But after a few minutes of gentle talk, and sniffing and soft petting, he relaxed at least a little. The lady nodded, noncommittal. The next cat warmed up quickly – he was a big orange tabby who head butted them both and purred loudly. What he really wanted was to play, though, and he launched himself at the dangly cat toy Rachel held before she even offered it.

They sat for a few minutes, exchanging cat stories while the tabby batted and pounced. The lady talked lovingly about her departed cat, and Rachel wondered if she was ready yet. It was fairly common to go through this process with someone who then just left, and you could tell they really just wanted some interaction with a cat, that they weren't ready for anything more.

But when they got to door number three, the magic happened. The cat was a burly black and white boy with a comically big head that contrasted to his expression of anxious concern. He held back at first, looking nervously between them as Rachel and the lady sat and offered hands to sniff. Then – Rachel could swear some of the cats just knew what to do, claimed their person as much as the person claimed them – he cautiously approached her. His head moved toward her and his back arched gently into her hand as she petted him. Then his purr motor revved, and he stood right next to her, head rubbing at her shoulder as his feet marched in place.

Not much more to say. Rachel could predict that this was the cat she was looking for, but she stayed silent. Let the cat make the sale. She never liked to push someone who wasn't ready – no sense in the trauma for both cat and human of a return. The lady lifted the big boy into her lap, and he sat there happily, gazing up in clear adoration. "This one," she said, eyes sparkly. "I want him. You'll come home with me, okay sweetie?"

And that was what made her day. After walking the woman to the front, Rachel went back to sit with the first cat, the shy guy. She petted him, talked to him gently, hoping another nice lady would come by. Reflected that she had gone for at least a couple hours without thinking about her own problems at all.

# Chapter 4

As more weeks passed, as the holidays approached, more distractions and at last an end to this horrible year was in sight, Rachel gradually managed a few more of those unbroken, in-the-moment phases.

Hours now passed as normal at work. Busy days in particular. The workload ticked up at the end of each month, and late in October their whole software package got a major and glitchy upgrade. She found herself hard at work, muttering curses at the system when it froze, taking breaks and chatting just casually with co-workers. Whether they'd gotten many kids coming by on Halloween, whether it was really a kindness to share the leftover candy, that sort of thing.

She would sit at her computer, updating forms and idly listening to the quiet conversations nearby. Think about how long it had been since lunch, whether she could justify peanut M&Ms if she only had one of those tiny bags. They did have peanuts, they weren't entirely sugar. Those silly internal debates you have, or the mild annoyance of a coworker missing a deadline or just missing the train.

The point was, even being bothered by those minor things or having a coworker annoyed rather than pitying her seemed, upon reflection, a small victory. Tiny hurdles overcome on the long slog back toward normalcy. And near anything was an improvement over those awful syrupy days of utter devastation she had initially overcome one slow hour at a time.

Home was a greater challenge, that Rachel would admit. After all, it was the house that she and Glen had purchased together, the place where she, at least, assumed they would grow old together. (Glen had sometimes mentioned post-retirement year long jaunts around the Australian outback, or how it would really make sense to move back to the city later, get a downtown condo and make use of all the to-be-invented tech marvels like shared driverless cars and tourism via camera drone.)

Still, her spells of full on darkness and despair had lessened. She could at least walk through the front door, and not immediately feel his absence. She and the cats had their own routines now. All three spread across the bed at night, along with one or two books Rachel was reading, in a way that took the space Glen had once occupied. The fridge held enough for one person plus the occasional guest; the kitchen table where she ate was generally stacked with magazines and mail she needed to handle.

Evenings and nights had slowly gotten easier. Routines, routines, and strenuous workouts timed to get her tired enough to drop off to sleep. News on the radio, soothing NPR voices for the same effect, and medication available in case that didn't do the trick. Even weekends slid by less difficult than during those first painful months. She specifically made plans to see friends, or set out complicated goals for herself around the house, those big sort of jobs that neither she nor Glen had ever particularly enjoyed.

The place had never looked better, frankly, and as the Bay Area's housing prices spiraled ever up, was worth more than ever. Not that she had any plans to sell – she liked being in the relative quiet outside the city, had little desire to walk to late night concerts or whatever Glen used to envision for their later years.

Those awkward condolence type calls had tapered off, the sweet but pained check ins from friends. Possibly there had been an organized schedule of these? She seemed to recall hearing from one then another old college friend, usually Friday nights. And though she had often hung up from them feeling relieved, the relief after being stirred up, now she thought, hey, where'd those guys go. I'm still here and he's still gone.

It pretty much made her rethink her own formerly glib notions from how she'd acted after the deaths of older relatives or the divorces of friends. But she also realized – as no doubt they did, the un-partnered, whether through death or divorce – that it was on her now to reach out. She couldn't always be the tragic victim, sitting home with the cats, waiting for a call or a charitable invite. Anyway, she wasn't the only one who had suffered a loss.

Home on a Thursday after work and a tasty drawn out meal, she called Hannah. (She might be missing her father, but Rachel knew better than to bother her on a Friday night.) "Are you somewhere safe?" Rachel asked when she answered. "Not driving, or you know..." Both she and Casey had been known to wander through possibly sketchy neighborhoods at night, focussed on their phones and ignoring the world around them.

"I'm fine, just got home. Making pasta."

Rachel could hear background noises. Trusted Hannah to know this was true, that she wasn't just rattling pans as an excuse to end the call.

They exchanged how are yous, How's work, what's new. Hannah spoke about a new release her company was about to launch, how busy they all were getting ready. Rachel told her about her favorite cats at the SPCA, and about Bella's latest troublemaking. The cat had taken to hiding in Rachel's carryall bag, and leaping out, startling her and Minx both. Hannah made a good audience for cat stories – like her dad, she adored animals, and she had known the girls since their kittenhood.

"Anything else new with you?" Rachel asked. She might as well be direct. "Any new guys you're dating? Sorry, but I feel like I owe it to your dad's memory to ask." So devious, she chided herself, using her loss like this. Still, she wondered, she hoped Hannah had someone special.

"I guess I have been sort of seeing this guy," Hannah admitted. "I think I might have mentioned him before, but he's based in the Portland office." Long pause. "So it's kind of on and off, or like, it's a long drive for one of us. Usually him."

Rachel bit back her delight. Surely Hannah was beyond all that, but she'd hardly want the girl to rebel if she seemed too enthusiastic. She just asked a few more questions. And suggested, as Hannah herself had said often enough, that nobody's really stuck in their job long term anymore, so surely one of them could relocate if it got serious.

"Yeah, well, I don't see myself in Portlandia," Hannah said. "I don't want to be responsible for him, like, uprooting if it didn't work out. What about you," she continued, turning the tables, as she was so good at. "Are you dating anyone?"

"Me?" Rachel spluttered, barely able to laugh. At the very idea, much less discussing it with Hannah, Glen's firstborn.

"Okay, I know it's soon. But you're still—I mean, you do all that Pilates and you're attractive and smart. I mean, I'd be okay with it. Casey too, I'm sure."

"Well, thank you, Hannah, thank you for saying that." Rachel paused, glancing down at the soft, comfy, well-worn work out gear she always tossed on now after work. Thought of her hair that needed a trim, the lines now permanently etched around her eyes and across her forehead. "I guess I don't feel quite like a prize just yet," she said. "It's hard to imagine going through all that again, dressing up and making conversation."

"Maybe you will though, later on? You guys always told me not to get stuck in a rut, but go out and meet new people."

Rachel ruefully agreed, Glen had probably used those exact words. "I think one of my old friends here tried to set me up," she told Hannah. "At least she sat me next to this sad divorced guy at a dinner party."

"And?"

"Oh, lord, the guy was bitter beyond belief, kept complaining about his ex and kind of implying that women in general are out for men's money, that sort of thing. Plus he was allergic to cats!"

They laughed. It was funny now, though Rachel recalled coming home at the end of that evening exhausted and down hearted, ready to swear off socializing ever again.

"If Dad was the one, I mean if he had survived instead, I bet he'd get set up. And honestly, I don't mean this in a negative way, I bet he would get back out there. I mean it wouldn't take away from your marriage. To be with someone again."

"You're right, on both counts," Rachel said. Smart girl. Like her father. Glen, all the Voights, they were masters at bouncing back.

Hannah had to tend to her meal, and they hung up, but Rachel stayed where she was, mulling things over. Glen – of course he would be up for something, or someone new. If he was the survivor, oh heck yes, wouldn't there be a line forming of eligible ladies interested in the care and feeding of a charming, healthy, employed widower?

The thing was, Rachel just didn't relish all things new, she never had. She might as well have been born middle aged – a quiet life style suited her. They had enjoyed the bulk of their time together, she and Glen. She had lived a good life overall, and she would be fooling herself to try and become young again. She was 55, for Pete's sake. Some people wouldn't even call that middle aged anymore but old. A senior citizen.

Still, she hated to think of herself as, well, permanently resigned from life. Like old people, actually old, who didn't bother keeping up on trends and technology but railed against changes or anything new, who could only look backwards, reminiscing dully about the old days long gone. Yes, things had been better for her 15 or 20 years ago, Rachel thought. Who wouldn't say that, who wouldn't long for the days when the body was in prime shape, bars didn't get blown up, the planet was less of a disaster?

She stood, went to the kitchen, and poured herself another glass of wine, the slightly sweet sauvignon blanc she now favored. She was freed now from Glen's wine snobbery, his insistence on super dry whites or reds so loaded with tannin you could practically chew them. She savored a long swallow and told herself, see, everything good wasn't back in the past.

Another few sips and Rachel found herself in an increasingly familiar place in her head. Not quite angel and devil on her shoulders, but another voice heard. The one whispering no, everything wasn't ideal back then. Glen did have a selfish streak, he did and now I'm the one paying! He might as well have dumped me, going off on his own like that when we were on a trip together. He couldn't have sacrificed one hour of his trip to come back to the hotel – oh, no, he had to be in the thick of things.

And bang, his time, all that time he still saw stretched out before him, all those adventures yet unlived, gone. But Rachel still had time. Time to mourn but maybe also time to be angry as well as sad. Then over, what, 20, 30 years? Time enough to move on. Stop moping around in her same old chair, rehashing the past, and venture at least a toe or two into uncharted waters.

Her phone buzzed and she jolted in her chair. Guilty from her thoughts, from sitting alone drinking and lost in her maudlin meanderings. Bella, ever attuned to human moods, bolted away too, but quickly returned when she heard Rachel's voice. She generally assumed all phone conversations were extended monologues to or about her own sweet self.

It was Nick calling. He, at least, had not abandoned her with his thoughtful check ins. (Had they ever discussed such a thing, he and Glen, she thought? Had a quick whispered conversation groom to best man about hey, keep an eye on my bride if terrorists get me?)

They had a similar exchange as she'd just had with Hannah, minus the cat stories. And minus probing about his love life – Nick had an on again off again girlfriend and it just got too confusing to figure out where they stood at any given time. She only asked when she needed to know whether to set a plate, and with him living down in Monterey, that was hardly ever anymore. At least he saw Casey regularly.

"So did that computer firm send you anything yet?" Nick asked.

This, Rachel thought, was the real reason for his call. "Yes, they emailed me several different documents," she told him. "I didn't do more than scan them." If glancing at their titles before clicking them closed counts as scanning, she thought. Feeling a twinge of guilt that Nick was still doggedly tracking down every last detail of Glen's final days while she was overwhelmed just thinking about it. The computer, the emails, all of it. "Why don't I forward it all?" she added. He'd contracted with someplace super legit, that would only officially deal with her, the wife.

"Great, great. I know they send all kinds of irrelevant crap, but I'll go through it, no problem."

Nick had discovered, or thought he had, evidence that the computer was used after the bombing and fire. Glen had all kinds of online tracking and cloud back ups and so on, things they could use to trace the computer, but they had first assumed anything that showed up later was just related to time zones.

But Nick thought something was off. He was something of a tech geek, working for a branch of one of those big firms and always proud to show off the latest new device, the sort of thing Rachel might or might not bother to ever purchase, but for sure would wait for large drops in price. Anyway, all the investigating turned out to vindicate him – it did now appear that the computer had been used for at least several hours after it was supposedly burned in the fire.

Nick had also had a tough time straddling the various stages of grief, Rachel thought. He couldn't let go of the randomness of it all, the chain of events that led to his big brother's passing. He pursued the computer because it gave him a sense of control when there wasn't anything else he could do.

So now it appeared that Glen had left the computer at the bar. With his coat, probably, and some low life had stolen it from the crime scene. Then, as news of the tragedy spread, had a crisis of conscious or feared being caught, and dumped it. It had not been connected or used past midnight of that night.

Rachel didn't care. Suppose they found the computer in a dump after all this time, or the thief had taken a selfie or something. Would it matter at all? She forwarded the messages to Nick's email.

"So, did Casey say anything to you about the email accounts?"

Rachel tuned back in; Nick was still going on about Glen's computer. "I haven't spoken to him recently," Rachel said, temporizing. She recalled something along those lines, from several months ago, and she had basically told Casey to feel free to close and delete everything – the LinkedIn, Glen's work related listservs, all of it. This was the future, Rachel thought. We'll post our obits on facebook for people to click sad faces, and then our online profiles will outlive us. Smiling photo icons immortal on the internet.

"He was supposed to let you know," Nick said.

"Well, we're dealing with Casey-time," Rachel answered, voice of experience. "It's like island time, only it takes longer. What should I be expecting?"

"It may be nothing. Or work related, I don't know. But I'm assuming the documentation you're forwarding will include all the accounts, just so you know. Apparently Casey found an unusual account online when he was scrubbing Glen's stuff. A vampire or something, he had some goofy name for it."

"Okay." Rachel was waiting for the punch line, or for Nick to take the techie hat back off and finish the conversation.

"Anyway, he – Casey – thought it was sketchy enough that he basically deleted it and decided not to mention it to any of us. He only told me when he realized I'd probably be seeing it in the back ups they're sending, assuming these guys were thorough."

"What are you talking about, Nick? Like Ashley-Madison stuff? Porn?" Rachel felt a twinge of nerves. The sensation she used to get when Glen was proposing something reckless and she had to figure out how to talk him out of it, the sensation she hadn't felt in a good long while.

"No, nothing like that," Nick said with a nervous laugh. "I don't think. No, this was money related. The kind of under cover email account that links to one of those overseas accounts, you know, like the Caymans? Where people put funds they don't want to pay taxes on, that sort of thing."

Rachel let out a breath, and realized she had been holding it. "Glen wasn't – he didn't do those sorts of things for clients," she told Nick. "The firm was very clear about that, very above board, passed all their audits and everything."

"And you don't know about any other accounts he held, right? I mean, you went over all the finances with the lawyers, back last May."

"No, of course not. We squared everything away, the house, our joint accounts, his 401k, it's all in my name now. You think he was, what, making sketchy trades on the side or something?" she asked.

"I don't know what to think. I know he worried about money, about job security, I mean who doesn't. But he would have told you, right?" Nick's voice faded out. He sounded a bit unsure. "Anyway, if it's okay with you, I'll dig around. I'm sorry Casey didn't talk to both of us about this back last spring."

They finished up the conversation. Rachel gazed at her computer for a moment, wondering if she should investigate the docs. They were hundreds of pages, though, reams of weird code and incomprehensible text, wherein buried somewhere there might or might not be, what, evidence that Glen was double dealing or something? His firm for sure would have nothing to do with those offshore tax havens. God, when the Panama Papers story broke, didn't they boast about how they were above board, not associated with the dodgy stuff. Glen himself though, surely he was savvy enough to know about those sorts of things. The implications here just made her tired.

Rachel stood and walked to the kitchen to rinse out her glass. No more wine, no more calls, no more useless looking backwards. Let Nick be the one, maybe he would discover a magic money pot and she and kids could all retire.

Yeah, fat chance. Secretive as Glen could be about the specifics of his work, the actual transactions, he certainly liked to boast about his solid results. Hard to imagine he could keep some secret offshore tax-free interest barer and say nothing. Glancing toward the office, she thought, well, it's not like I could find any paperwork now. Shouldn't have cleaned it all out so thoroughly, perhaps. But that was part of her therapy earlier, a way to channel that restless angry/sad energy that seemed to suffuse her whole being at a point most days this summer. Anyway, presumably secret accounts and vampire emails lived in the cloud. She could feel her heart thumping, another wash of anger over the things he apparently hadn't seen fit to share.

She would put on the TV, watch a light comedy maybe, and catch up on the news during the slow bits. But distract her overactive imagination.

This worked at least for awhile. Though she couldn't help replaying the conversation with Nick. Had she sent everything too fast, should she have reviewed first – for all she knew there were texts of insulting messages about him mixed in, or embarrassing exchanges between Rachel and Glen. Well, not very likely on that score, they'd neither been much for dirty talk or naked texting or whatever people did now when they were apart.

Aside from Glen's now and then desires to roam the wide world, their life had been pretty conventional. Sex in the bedroom, meals in the kitchen, baseball or movies in here, work in the office. Breaks for attention to and from the cats anywhere at all. Rachel's hand eased down to stroke Bella, who was curled beside her.

She wondered if she should phone Casey. Ask him about the weird email account, or somehow manipulate the conversation to enable him to bring it up. She could just imagine the sincere sounding promises he must have made to Nick, all, oh yeah, I'll call her right away, this Saturday when I need to ask for a recipe for my favorite dessert I want to make for my roommates. That was Casey's thing, he'd load up with details so you couldn't imagine he was being deceitful in any way.

Or who knows, maybe his intentions were sincere. That's what Glen and his ex Bethany both thought. They never accused him of lying, only of not keeping his commitments. He was a sensitive young man, Rachel knew that as well as anyone. She could remember how watchful he was as a child, how hyper aware he seemed to be of emotions, his and everyone else's. His heartbreak as a boy when they'd had to have the old dog put to sleep, how wary he was of attachment to any of the other pets.

Still petting Bella, Rachel recalled the last visit to the vet. Casey couldn't bring himself to discuss his father's email accounts with her, but apparently he had phoned the vet to check in about the wellbeing of the cats he had helped pick out almost a decade ago. The receptionist thought that was adorable. Rachel had left him a detailed message later that day, she recalled, but hadn't heard anything back. Again, typical Casey. And she hadn't followed up, or challenged him to get in touch with her directly – she didn't like to confront him anymore than he liked being confronted, she thought. In so many ways we all just do what's completely predictable.

# Chapter 5

Rachel had put the whole conversation with Nick conveniently out of her mind by the time he called back a week or so later. When he called, in fact, she assumed it was about Thanksgiving. She'd had quite a variety of invites this year, and counted herself oddly lucky that she and Glen had never made a big deal about this holiday. They had Nick and the kids over if any of them happened to be available, but no big deal if they weren't. What's left of her own family was scattered in the Midwest and sometimes gathered in the burbs of Chicago; no way Rachel and Glen ever made that trip just for a big meal. Rachel's friend Carol liked to have an all day gathering where people could come and go, eat or just show up after and escape from the family crazies and watch football. Rachel planned to go there, go early and help with the meal, and be as little of an object of pity as possible.

That on the tip of her tongue, but Nick launched in with barely a breath about his findings from the consulting firm. There was no doubt that Glen's computer was active well into the night, that night. Thanks to some techie workaround of the privacy settings, he now knew there were a bunch of searches from right then and there. Someone had viewed news sites' coverage of the terrorist acts, the fire, as well as maps of the area, subway and train schedules, plus the location of ATMs and computer stores.

"Obviously they wanted to leave the area," Nick concluded. "And presumably sell the computer."

"Would a computer store be open that late?" Rachel asked. "Or would they just buy it if someone wandered in off the street?"

"Way ahead of you, no and yeah probably, but they didn't, I already checked the ID and everything." Nick paused, clearly waiting for some props for his efforts.

"So you were right," she said. "Someone was using it."

"But it gets weirder," Nick continued, the pitch of his voice rising. "Now, they can't tell if it has anything to do with the laptop, this was all untraceable in the cloud, but apparently someone hacked into his other account, the vampire account too. That night!"

Rachel didn't even know what to ask.

"I figure he left his password and account name somewhere obvious on the laptop and the guy found it," Nick said. "Typical Glen, right, set it all up so careful and then stick a post-it with the login right there. You'd be amazed how much fraud is just that simple."

"It couldn't be that obvious," Rachel said. "We watched movies on the laptop flying in, I don't remember seeing anything like that on the desktop."

"Well, okay, not right there, but easy for someone who steals computers to find."

"So what did they do, did they leave a trail or something in the other accounts? They must not have done anything with Glen's regular accounts, I mean we would have noticed, back then?"

"They left his gmail and work accounts alone, which is a little weird if you think about it. I mean, if you've stolen a laptop from a fund manager, that would seem like the direction to go. And as for the vampire, that's the thing, it's not traceable. That's the point, so all we know is they found the password and messed around." Nick continued, in more technical terms.

Rachel listened until it stopped making sense at all. It didn't matter. Email accounts, hacked passwords, messages, traceable or not – it all happened too many months ago to matter. She felt herself swooping dangerously back from acceptance to despair, felt the months of slow healing and hours of gentle talk therapy getting stretched and torn back like a too loose scab you can't help picking. "Nick, can we—" Rachel stumbled. "I don't know what to say except that it's painful to talk about this. I'd rather remember good times than speculate about some computer thief and Glen's private accounts."

Nick apologized at once, and admitted he could go overboard once he got obsessed with something like this. He took it down a notch, they talked about Thanksgiving. Casey was planning to spend at least part of the day down there with him. Supposedly Casey also planned a trek to see his mom, who lived in San Ramon, significantly in the opposite direction, and she and Nick jokingly declined to take bets on which, if either, of these destinations he would actually achieve.

Rachel hung up with a smile on her face. That was something, at least. Likely that was another aspect of Thanksgiving that kept it from being much of a great holiday – the challenges of far flung family and children of divorce. The kids pressured to see both parents or alternate, making sure no one felt slighted, the hassles of a long drive just to reach a place where those old family tensions were sure to rear.

Just a few weeks ago, Rachel had been discussing holidays at her monthly grief counseling session and gotten so teary and overwhelmed that she had broken down, unable to continue. Envisioning the most precious, cherished moments, she and Glen clasping hands as they sat down to eat, everyone toasting the meal with sparkling wine goblets, joyous smiles. It had hurt to remember – all the visions she had seemed cast in that warm happy glow.

But now she recalled that last Thanksgiving had ended somewhat badly, with Glen and Casey getting into quite the argument about Casey's goals or lack thereof. Glen a little drunk and a little loud, pontificating on his long held philosophies regarding taking ones' talents seriously as though introducing a brand new idea. If turning your back on a lucrative career then you should have something to show for it! Art, capital A. The band he had started, junior year of college, its importance in teaching Glen that he did not, unfortunately, have what it took to be anything other than conventionally successful.

For her part, Rachel loved the image of Glen as a retro hippie strumming guitar in a band, writing heartfelt ballads and angry riffs about the decline of western civilization. She thought what he most got out of it was joy, as you could see in the photographs or hear in his voice when he described those days. Anyway, Casey had drunk a few glasses of wine too, and was laughingly dismissive of his father. They had ended up all three cleaning the kitchen too soon after the meal, probably each wishing Hannah had been there too to lighted the mood.

Rachel wandered into the office, distracted by her parallel and seemingly contradictory trains of thought. This kept happening. She would be happily and peacefully recalling the good times of her marriage, as if floating gently on a placid lake, and then something would emerge from below the surface and roil the waters.

Well, roiled already, she thought she might catch up on the survivor's listserv. She had been delinquent even reading it much less adding anything; back in New York there was a whole group of people who got together regularly, who had built new friendships.

Rachel logged in, and scrolled back a bit to the discussions she last remembered seeing. Didn't bother with logistics of east coast meet ups or the long winded ponderings of a couple of the survivors who spent a lot of time here. The group was open, and Rachel felt a bit resentful that people who had simply stopped for a drink and left that night counted themselves as having survived. Pretty minor trauma, she thought, as compared to the people who had lost a spouse or child.

There were multi-pronged discussions about the investigation, still. Somewhat pointless, Rachel thought. She didn't go so far as to get into a flaming argument about it, but it seemed irrelevant to their purpose of moving beyond the tragedy now. The perpetrators had all died, two by the suicide bomb, one shot by a security guard, and one had taken himself out before he was captured a day later. Still, messages flared, as in why did everyone assume it was ISIS or Muslims, when it was proven beyond a doubt that they were US born and recent converts to a brand of anti-Israeli sentiment too hard core for any but extreme militants. Were there other cells, were they trained, wild conspiracies that the FBI was covering up intel.

Skip, skip, Rachel moved along – she would read the New York Times if she needed news updates. She paused at a series of exchanges from some people – actual survivors – who had gotten out of the club after the bomb but before the fire incinerated the place.

This hit another nerve, she had to admit. One part of herself, what she thought of as her true self, her original innocent self, wept silently every time she encountered these people on the listserv. Because they were basically young club hoppers, lithe New Yorkers, city smart and agile, and they had managed to escape. And they included a trio of friends who had ducked in from the bar, just as Glen had. But he hadn't made that last dash to freedom – had he gotten turned around in the smoke, or had a heart attack from fear? That was Nick's theory – he comforted himself with the idea that the death was immediate.

But the devil on her other shoulder sometimes erupted in fury. These young people got out with barely a scratch, Glen, why couldn't you? Why would you do this to me, and the kids, and Nick? And she was angry at those New Yorkers as well. They couldn't have assisted a man old enough to be their father? They had all crawled across that floor from the bar together, how cruel to have left him behind.

Earlier, months ago, she had gone back and forth with these three, begged and demanded an explanation. She had gotten immediate sympathetic replies, genuine anguish on their part, but each one described the scene as having been a crazy blur, of running by instinct, no recollection of anyone's actions but their own.

Well, it made sense, she thought now, reeling herself in from the darker place. You'd run in a panic, and not pay attention to a stranger, especially an older person. She knew well enough from personal experience how it was to be a near invisible middle aged woman.

She could kick herself now, looking back, at the cavalier attitude she had once taken toward anyone old or slow or struggling out of grief. Like people did to her now, she would look away. Zip around a person with trouble walking, offer a vague platitude to someone in obvious despair. Grit her teeth impatiently awaiting the end of a detailed story from someone who was lonely but not her responsibility. Yeah, the 40 something Rachel had written checks to Doctors without Borders and the Salvation Army, but looked away from anyone suffering right there in front of her. Saved her tears for distressed animals.

Rachel checked the clock and decided that while it was early, it was not too early to curl up with the cats in bed. She put aside all those circling thoughts of the bar, the kids who had escaped, Glen's computer, the thief and the accounts and why he'd logged onto the weird one and not the others. Her own shortcomings towards her family and as a wife and a friend, even her promises to do better. She would read and she would sleep.

Turning sideways, she looked at but did not reach for the insomnia meds. Her doctor had also prescribed what he termed a very mild anti-depressant. Well, he'd prescribed it awhile ago, but she had finally decided to give it a try a few weeks back, when she had found herself circling that vast vacuum of sorrow and anger too many nights. She didn't like the idea of depending on such a thing, but it did seem to help. Got her on even keel and enabled her to sleep better anyway. She might not announce all this on Thanksgiving, but it was a small thing to give thanks for.

Come the actual day, Rachel didn't hesitate to down a happy pill. That was how she referred to them, channeling a long ago vision of her father scoffing about the very idea of an able bodied adult partaking in such a thing. Coldly lucky, she thought, that he had not lived long enough to witness his daughter doing so.

Then she launched herself forward and kept in constant motion. With Carol, her adult daughter, and a friendly neighbor vying for the hardest jobs, they worked together chopping, sautéing, stuffing, stirring. Rachel would not let herself pause to be drawn into any serious conversation at all, much less one of those tragic widow ones. Oh, the first holiday alone, oh you're so strong and brave, and so on.

When she took even the smallest break to rest and sip her wine and nibble, she made a beeline for the nearest strangers who didn't know her back story. The closest she got to any of it was in the kitchen with Carol and the other cooks – she admitted she was finally taking the meds. Made Carol happy anyway; she had been urging Rachel to at least give it a small temporary try.

Rachel could admit it wasn't the worst thing. Standing in the warm crowded kitchen, rich with the smells of the turkey cooking, and pie, and spices, the sound of multiple conversations and someone's kid giggling in delight – well, it was plain nice. She could acknowledge that. Her tight tense edge, that wariness that had been with her since long before the trip, before losing Glen, it was muted. At least a little, at least for now.

Rachel without her edge, and her friends approved, she thought with an inward sigh, as they brought the food out to the over laden table. We should all just take our happy pills and stop thinking at all. Watch cute You-tube videos, don't bother reading anything longer than a tweet. Or better, just look at pictures.

Toasting the meal and the cooks and friendship, she tuned that other voice out. Made a small promise to herself not to get dependent on the pills, but another one to allow herself some simple pleasures.

That evening at home, hours later, Rachel found herself still smiling, upbeat. Pleasantly full from the meal and happy to give the girls some nibbles of the leftover turkey she had brought back. Glen would have done the same; a little human food wouldn't hurt them, and Bella at least enjoyed it so. Rachel had thought of him on and off over the day, and each time she told herself to make it positive. Recall something sweet and nice, leave the bitterness behind.

She wondered how Hannah and Casey were doing. She had emailed a quick greeting to them both earlier in the day, not really expecting a response. Email, Casey had informed her at one point a couple years back, was what old people used. One more trend to have come and apparently gone in the fast paced world of tech.

Not long later her phone trilled with a text from Hannah. A holiday greeting and could she get on Skype?

Yes she could. Rachel flipped on her laptop first, needing to locate her password and so on, not enough of a multi-tasker to do that and text at the same time. She also brushed back her hair and wiped her face, hoping she looked more peppy than loopy from the busy day and all the eating and drinking.

Hannah's computer was set up on her kitchen table, and the day's detritus was visible behind her.

"Oh, look at your kitchen," Rachel laughed.

"Success!" Hannah answered, giving her laptop a hasty swirl for a view of more dishes and leftovers. "My mom did the turkey," she added, "to give credit where due. How was yours?"

Rachel summarized her day, her awesome meal. The cooking pretty much was the entertainment, she thought, otherwise she'd be annoyed to have worked for hours on a dinner that got scarfed up in twenty minutes.

"So are you doing okay?" Hannah pressed. "I mean I miss dad, but I did have a nice day. Having Mom here was cool."

Rachel assured her that she had felt okay too. Though it occurred to her to wonder what happened with Casey – according to Nick, he was to see his mom at home. Well, hopefully he spent the whole day with Nick then; presumably he would say hello if he'd flown up to Seattle.

"Listen, I hope this isn't too weird, but my mom wanted to talk to you about something." Hannah pulled back a bit and her mom Bethany's face came into view.

They exchanged friendly if slightly awkward greetings. It was always a little jarring to see Bethany in person (or like this, in real time). First because Rachel's mental picture of her was far out of date, based on photos with the kids from years back. And second because they looked a bit alike – similar oval faces and hair and even hair cuts.

"I told her about that hidden email account, the stuff Nick found out?" Hannah added.

"I'm sorry, I hope this isn't out of line," Bethany said, drawing closer to the center of the screen. "It just triggered something for me, an incident from a long time ago, before the kids were born. I wasn't sure if I should say anything, but Hannah thought you should hear it."

"Okay," Rachel said. The little image of herself in the corner of the screen was distracting. She looked wide eyed, not entirely sober, and older than how she thought of herself day to day.

"This was just a couple years after we got married," Bethany said. She spoke slowly, as if also a bit uncomfortable with the technology. "I was newly pregnant, and we were both excited about starting the family. Glen wanted kids in theory, that was genuine, but, you know, it freaked him out a little. It was rough on both of us – I got pretty cranky during my first trimester, nauseous and tired and probably kind of needy. And he was working a fairly new job, but having some problems. I didn't find that out until later, though, the problems or that he was actively looking for something new." She paused and brushed her hair away from her face, a gesture much like the one Hannah used when she had something to say but didn't want to say it.

"Of course we worried about money," Bethany continued. "I was going to stop working for the first couple years, and we had a decent sized mortgage, not so great interest rates. Glen – you know how he could just clam up, it seemed like he didn't want to talk about it, and I figured it would all work out, and well, it did."

Hannah mumbled something in the background, and Bethany gave a quick nod. "Right, to the point: Glen, without my knowing, had been setting aside funds in an account I didn't know about. Just in his name, and he was investing in some high risk stuff. Turned out fine, he made quite a good return. But he didn't tell me about it until later. And before that, he, um, just took off for about a week."

Rachel frowned, not sure what to say. "As in he didn't tell her," Hannah put in. "What was going to be an overnight for work turned into he didn't show up or call, he just vanished. She freaked out."

"Well, this was before everyone had smart phones," Bethany said. "I didn't think much of it at first, thought my pregnancy brain had misunderstood the days or something. But he didn't come back, didn't call, and yeah, I went a little nuts. I called everyone we knew. I called his work, of course, and that's how I found out he had left the firm. He took another job without letting me know."

"So what happened?" Rachel could not recall Glen mentioning anything like this in his stories of what went wrong with his first marriage. Bethany cried all the time when she was pregnant was the closest thing he'd said.

Bethany shrugged. "He came back. Told me some obviously false story about a power outage on his trip or something, along with the new job. We had a pretty big fight over it and finally he admitted that he was having some second thoughts. Not about you," she quickly added to Hannah, " but about being ready to have a family. Having enough money was one thing, but also whether he was closing himself off from other opportunities."

"I know it's totally different now," Hannah said. "But you know, Dad was always on our case about opportunities. And the thing with setting up a secret account, it sounds like that was a pattern of his. Maybe he left something out there."

"Well, Nick thinks there might be," Rachel acknowledged. "Did he know about the, um, disappearing?"

"He did. That might be why he's been so, you know, determined to figure it all out. It made him very angry at Glen," Bethany added. "It took Nick longer to forgive him than it did me. Well, I was pretty consumed with the pregnancy and all, and Glen really stepped up by the time you were born." She nodded at Hannah. "It just became one of those things we stopped ever mentioning, and I thought later maybe my reactions had been over blown, hormonal or something."

"I don't think so," Hannah said, the image of her face shifting just slightly after her voice spoke from the computer. "If anything you were very forgiving. I can't believe he would do that. I mean I guess it doesn't matter anymore..."

"I just wondered at the pattern," Bethany said. "It did seem like a way he had of coping if he thought there would be financial problems."

Retirement, Rachel thought. Still an abstract for her, but she didn't crunch other people's numbers every day. Or long term medical needs; Glen's father had become ill in his early 60s, that seemed like a bogeyman out there on the calendar for him. Out loud, she just voiced a simple assent. She thanked Bethany for telling her the story and reassured Hannah that it was something she could handle, appropriate that she should know.

After they has said goodbye and she put away the laptop, Rachel realized no one had mentioned Casey. Had he heard this story from his mom? Is that where he got that attitude he had sometimes, that hiding things, sweeping them under the rug, was okay?

She leaned back, arching her back in the comfortable, ergonomically correct office chair. Physically relaxed, still full from dinner and drink, but mentally stirred up. Angry again. So Glen had not only siphoned money away to some secret account, he had done it before? She pulled out her computer again, and logged in to the bank account. Reviewed transfers in and out from the past couple years.

The thing was, Glen's salary included commissions; it was never the same number going in, so how could she tell if a portion of it had been somehow redirected? And he regularly moved funds around, in and out of checking and the money market fund and the Merrill account. He made frequent trades. Obviously she expected him to be doing the investing, that was his job. Their accounts always looked plenty full to Rachel. She worried less about retirement – they had a decent amount saved plus a soon to be paid off house. She couldn't foresee the kind of expenses he had, she thought now, either ill health or crazy adventure travel.

A couple hours sped by before she took a break, and when she sat up she felt like her whole body was clenched up. There were dozens of entries in and out with no explanation, no documents or paper files to go with them. She stood there for a moment, before shutting off the computer in disgust. Good feminist you are, she told herself. Let the hubbie take care of the finances and don't even ask.

What she needed was to talk to someone who would have a better idea of what some of these things might mean. Harv, she thought – didn't he tell her to call him any time she needed? Rachel got as far as scrolling to his number before she remembered it was getting late and a holiday. He meant what he said, but she would just as soon not be the crazy lady he had to placate, interrupting family time, just like some of those clients of Glen's. Assuming that's who they really were, she now thought darkly.

Morning came, and she tried unsuccessfully to luxuriate in the day off. Glen would have, he had been quite capable of rolling over for more sleep like a teenager or one of the cats if no demands were made on his time. But Rachel rose not much past her normal hour. Cats to be fed, and she needed a good solid workout.

She waited until late morning to try Harv. She wondered idly if he and his wife had lounged in bed and was jealous that they were probably having those thoughtless exchanges you have with your spouse while you clean up the house. Or maybe his wife was cleaning and he was pretending to work, eyes on a football game over the top of his laptop.

If she was interrupting, he made no mention. Said all the right things, how he'd been thinking of her, hoping she was okay, missing a good long chat with his old buddy Glen.

Rachel felt a little bad turning it around to say anything negative about Glen – but Harv had known him as well as anyone. Briefly, she summarized what she had learned: the vampire email account, the unknown offshore account, and now the news that Glen had set up a secret account during his first marriage. How could she tell what entries were normal and which were disappearing somewhere?

He wasn't much help. "I move my own funds around as things come up," he admitted. "It would be hard to make sense of a series of transactions unless you had real time balances of all the trades and everything."

"Well, you guys talked. Did he ever drop a hint about concealed accounts or whatever you call them? Did he try to steer you there or something?"

"We didn't really get into the particulars of what we were putting where, for our own funds," Harv said. He paused, exhaling loudly. "But I guess I can't say it shocks me that Glen might have set something like that up, off to the side."

"You guys just all do that or what?" Rachel said.

"No, just, the thing with Glen, he did worry about finances. I'm sure he wanted to watch out for you, Rachel, and make sure the kids were okay. Casey – well, you know how he is, and Glen went back and forth about him being independent and protecting him."

"For what that's worth now," she answered. Bitter, thinking of she and Casey both dumped off his health plan, then apologetic. "No, I get what you're saying, Harv, and I appreciate it. I know he felt protective of us; I just wish he had let me know, shared his feelings, not hidden money away obviously."

"It is pretty easy to set something up," Harv acknowledged. "Not saying I would, but yeah, a lot of guys do I'm sure. And of course if he had already done it once before..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

As Rachel suspected, Harv couldn't tell her much more – as he said, they didn't get into the specifics of their investments, and Harv had been on his own, independent, for years now. He urged her to investigate, see if there were funds that she could claim.

"I hate to bring it up," Harv said, just when Rachel thought the conversation was finished. "But we were out for drinks a few months before he died, around New Years I guess. Talking about the market, trends for the coming year, that stuff, and he was sounding pretty down about, well, things."

"Retirement?"

"Sure, that, but more like life in general. Whether both of us were in a rut, if that was just what happens when you're close to 60."

Rachel sighed, guessing what Harv wasn't saying. "You mean in a rut, as in him and me? My not wanting to go places?" She couldn't imagine they'd talked about their sex lives, but that was implied too, wasn't it.

"I was glad when he told me you were both going to New York, you know, it sounded spontaneous and fun," Harv said. "Damn it, now I wish you'd gone anywhere else."

What could she say to that. "You're telling me."

"I just, when I heard he was missing at first, I kind of wasn't surprised. Like it seemed inevitable that he would get himself into some impossible situation. Get trapped, disappear from all the problems he thought he had. I don't know, don't listen to me, I'm probably depressed too."

"You would never have left your wife like that," Rachel said flatly. The absolute truth of that statement struck her. Glen had left her, however tragic the rest of the whole situation had been.

"I'm so sorry, Rachel. It's true, I wouldn't have been there. If something happened here, it's pretty likely we'd both be home. Glen wasn't satisfied with that quiet life. That's what I meant, it just seemed inevitable that he was going to leave it somehow."

After they hung up, Rachel heard his words echoing in her head. Unsatisfied. Inevitable. Disappear. She felt her shoulders tight and her heart beating too rapidly. She grabbed a jacket and car keys and headed out – she would do errands, see a movie, anything other than sit here, anything to get the implications of what Harv said out of her mind.

# Chapter 6

Rachel decided to put everything on hold until after the holidays. Everything. Her sorrow, her anger, her questions, her research about the mystery account. She was tired, exhausted from it all. Anyway, there was otherwise much to do. Her work got busy as year end approached, and she willingly took on extra hours. She had gifts to buy, cards to send – actual paper cards to older relatives, hers and Glen's both, who wouldn't go online.

This year double down of it all, with the sympathetic friends reaching out and so on, all the more energy needed to assure everyone she was okay, or at least surviving. Extra gifts for Hannah and Casey, along with reassurances from them that they would spend Christmas with their mom. (Hannah would do what she said she would, Rachel thought; Casey, who knows.) But there was a sense of letting one more thing go, or of maybe backing off a bit – the kids were on their own, no longer her responsibility if they ever even were. She just had to get through the days and nights herself.

A little disappointed in herself but promising it was temporary, she escaped into the quiet numbness of the meds. Anti-depressants for the day, and the Ambien for blankness at night. Dreamless sleep that she tumbled into and back out of, never feeling quite refreshed. It was the same for the days: they started and proceeded and ended, she played her part, but they ran together, meaningless. She couldn't tell you what she had done by the end of one. Her work suffered too, with dumb or thoughtless mistakes.

She even made the trip back to her sister's place, something she normally avoided with the excuse of family obligations at home. Well, so much for that anymore. Why not throw on the nightmare of holiday travel and a Chicago area winter to cap off this miserable year?

The weather cooperated, at least, if she didn't mind taking advantage of the world wide crisis of global warming to avoid heavy snow in the midwest. The flights were overcrowded but not super late. Or maybe she was just inured to it all, Rachel thought. Hey, nobody's shooting up the crowd, so no problem being wedged into the stuffy, stinky, ear-piercing discomfort of United Air.

Her sister Darrie picked her up at the airport, and fussed over her, apologizing yet again for not having attended the memorial service. Rachel let herself be hugged and patted, and tried again to reassure her. Darrie's reluctance to leave her comfort zone was widely known, widely accepted. Rachel actually appreciated that her sister made her seem, in comparison, like a bold adventurer.

Both her nieces were on hand, cheerful 20 somethings whom Rachel liked but didn't really feel she knew very well. Both girls seemed young to her, not all that interesting anymore. She couldn't help but compare them unfavorably to Hannah, who was much more independent. And thoughtful. The nieces seemed to spend most of their time heads down, thumbing their phones, even in the midst of the family gatherings.

Still, Rachel managed to relax. Once the initial round of anguished sympathy towards her had abated, everyone fell into their regular roles. Darrie and Dirk squabbled mindlessly, correcting each others' errors, rolling their eyes, bemoaning their aging eyes and ears. Each refused to use reading glasses or any sort of hearing device. Instead the TV was blasted, random comments repeated, reading material held at arm's length. The girls went out with old friends home for the holidays, and slept in their old rooms, lounging in their pajamas at least until lunch.

Rachel pitched in as much as Darrie would allow, listened to oft retold stories from their aunts and uncles, tried not to accidentally sound snobby from references to things that were normal at home but less so back here (decent wines and organics at the grocery store, for instance, or a pleasant t-shirt weather hike at the beach she might take when she got back). She told her share of stories too, things she and Glen had done together, weekend trips they had made years back. Nothing about the New York trip though. That was a dark cloud hovering that she couldn't talk normally about, and her family, good stoic mid-westerners, studiously avoided any mention. Everyone talked about Glen as if he had been a fond pet, beloved and gone except in memory.

Flying home, Rachel felt the familiar sense of relief she always experienced flying in from elsewhere. Gazing out the smeary airplane window at the welcome hills of the coastal range, the tiny crowded highways, the bay and the peninsula, as the plane dipped lower and closer to the land. She could count the minutes, battle through the last little bits off the plane and into a taxi and through the traffic up close and at long last home.

Home, where the girls alternated between ecstatic cries and adorable displays of displeasure. Bella would always sniff and then try to cover up her bags and the clothes that spilled out of them. These are shit, she made clear. You should have been here with me. But the sitter left a nice note, they had been eating well and sleeping peacefully. They would be okay. Rachel made sure to seek out Minx too, who was quieter, more anxious after having been abandoned.

Rachel let one more week drift by, but then started cutting back the meds. Sorrow and anxiety be damned, she would not turn into one of those spacey bumbling people dependent on anti-depressants and adrift in the wider world. Maybe save a few for the worst days upcoming: Valentine's Day, the first anniversary, the day that would have been their 20th wedding anniversary.

Day to day though, she needed to get her essential self back.

Oddly, it wasn't that bad a transition. At work, they were to a person happy to have a more competent co-worker. And Rachel found herself better able to concentrate, throwing herself into her tasks with almost the gusto of a new hire. The sadness came back at night still, sitting by herself or drifting off to sleep with only the faint weight of the cats next to her on the bed. But instead of those wild, teary, agonized memories that popped up so frequently last summer, it was more the memory of the memories. Glen gone, she should be sad.

Then morning came, and a day full of tasks and activities. Even weekends, chores at home. Stuff to clean up, stuff to get rid of. The first weekend with her mind fully clear, as she thought of it, she decided to dive right back into the mystery account, make calls, follow leads, see if anything could come of it.

Well, the best she could do was dig around enough to get freshly annoyed at the whole thing. With Glen, for not trusting her enough to share whatever concerns he had that led him to squirrel away money. And even with Nick – surely she would have felt less turmoil if he hadn't insisted on digging through his brother's private accounts so thoroughly.

Perhaps Nick had had better luck or learned something new, Rachel thought, willing herself to let go of her annoyance. They hadn't spoken for awhile. She called and he answered right away. He, of anyone, really meant it about saying she should call anytime.

"I got nothing," he said, before she could even phrase the question. "Happy holidays, by the way."

"You too. So, nothing as in you've been too busy, or..."

"No, I mean we hit a dead end. Guy I know helped me hack, and it's gone, the offshore account is closed." He paused, and Rachel waited him out. "Thing is, we're pretty sure it was emptied and closed sometime after, you know, after that night."

Rachel sighed. "So crime pays after all."

"It's definitely weird," Nick said. "How would someone know about any of this? I don't know how much it was, but I doubt he would have bothered setting it up for small change. It's almost like Glen gave the computer, or the account info, to someone he knew or something. I'm sorry, not to be too paranoid."

For a second, Rachel envisioned a mistress. Or a high paid hooker, someone Glen saw on business trips, someone with him at that bar, snatching his computer and sashaying away in her tight skirt and spike heels, seconds before the flames hit. Speaking of paranoid.

"Why do you think he did it, Nick?" she asked. "Be honest. I know you know that he did something like this before, Bethany told me about it."

There was such a long silence that she wondered if he'd been cut off. "Something about being the oldest, the older brother," he said at last. "It's like he always felt responsible for everybody else as well as himself. And no one could meet his standards, not me, not Casey, not even himself. But instead of asking anyone for help, he would come up with some scheme, some get-ahead strategy—I mean even when we were kids, I swear he had a secret plan to persuade our parents to put aside enough money for the best vacations. A plan to save enough to take a girl out of his league to the prom."

Rachel gave an uncomfortable laugh; the prom story she was sure she had heard.

"He was disciplined about saving money. But that time he took off, I was so pissed at him. Bethany was pregnant, freaking out! Our mom could have had a stroke. And it's not like he called me and was like hey Nick, I'm in some deep shit here, can you help me brother." Nick paused, and Rachel thought she could hear his slightly labored breathing over the phone, that angry, still. "He apologized in the lamest way, too," he continued. "Like, 'sorry if you were unnecessarily concerned,' as if it was me with the problem. I'll tell you, I had a bit of a flashback when I first heard the news, you know, the attack."

"Do you think, I'm sorry to even ask this, but do you think there's any way he could have had someone else, someone he needed money for, someone he was seeing?" Rachel did hate to ask, but now it was weighing on her; she pictured him at the bar with a secret girlfriend, never mind the security video where she had seen him alone. "Either time?"

"I don't think so. I did consider it, especially back then. But Glen is just so, was just so highly ethical about relationship stuff, you know? He needed time to be ready to be a parent, I guess. Even if he was putting away money, it was for security. And he was always on my case to fish or cut bait with Maddie. Make a commitment, see something through. I can't see him cheating – I mean if somebody came along, I feel like he would have been up front about it."

Rachel detected a note of hesitancy, but what could she say – Nick would be loyal to his brother even when he was angry. She took a deep breath. "I was talking to his friend Harv before, and he mentioned that Glen seemed a bit down the last time they saw each other. Worried about being in a rut." Rachael grimaced inwardly, glad Nick couldn't see her expression; it was painful to even think about her own part in their middle aged rut. "I don't suppose you guys talked about that?"

"Not in so many words, not really." Nick sounded more confident now. "I think he did feel like he was missing out on stuff, like spending too much time in the rat race. I mean he'd told me more than once – this in the context of security, having enough assets to be successful, blah blah – about how he felt most truly alive down there in Cabo. Remember that place you guys rented a few times? He said that was where it was possible to really be in the moment. As though that was some lofty goal we should all try to achieve, that you'd need to save up for. Maddie keeps me in the moment pretty much every day."

"Cabo," Rachel repeated. "I would have guessed Maui." The Maui trip was more recent. She hadn't been to Cabo for a decade at least. Glen had though. Nick had forgotten, or maybe not known, that Glen had made his last couple trips down there with college buddies. Rachel had begged off, not interested in a long trip that culminated in fishing, drinking, and retelling old stories.

"Well, anyway, I guess my point was he thought it was important, both to try to live that way, and obviously to be able to afford it. I mean, we all get so consumed by the day to day stuff..."

"Yeah," Rachel said, grim. "Until the shots ring out." They wrapped up the call. There really wasn't much else to say. Glen and the money – had it ever existed – were gone.

She brewed up some tea, and turned her attention to watering and trimming the plants. The girls followed, Minx fascinated by the sight of water dripping and Bella sure that the trimmings were meant to be playthings.

Nick's voice repeated in her head though. His voice was higher pitched than Glen's, but his intonations were so similar, it was almost like having heard him again. Families were funny that way, she thought. In a hundred ways she and Darrie were so different, their lives had veered so far apart, yet they too shared a similar vocal tone. Still, after all these years, she and Darrie could have a conversation where half the words were chopped off, unspoken, yet they understood each others' direction intuitively.

Even Hannah and Casey had a bit of that sibling intuition going on, and the same cool, upwardly pitched and slightly nasal California kid tone when they spoke to each other. Shared stories, or just a couple words that one would say to make the other laugh. Despite all the other ways they were different – she, the oldest, so responsible and calm, while Casey stayed the perennial man-child, always needing some sort of bail out.

The only time Casey really laughed, really let down his guard, was around Hannah. One more level of sadness from the whole tragedy, Rachel thought, now they would have fewer chances to hang out together. As she continued to work, pleased with the look and smell of the thriving plants, and careful not to accidentally squirt anyone while watering, she felt something else nagging at her. A point unmade, a thought not worth pursuing yet quietly poking at her, stealthy as one of the cats in the morning.

What Nick had said, about how Glen felt so responsible, how no one could meet his standards, not him, not Casey. Well, for sure not Casey, he was hard pressed to meet even moderate standards, wasn't he. And Glen had been worried, worried about providing for their retirement, and of course worried about his son.

Rachel knew that Glen refused to outright give his son money. But she also remembered the "loans," and the payments for so called services that they didn't really need but that Casey had been grudgingly able to provide. Two or three times what he referred to as investments, paying Casey's tuition for workshops, that sort of thing. He hadn't liked to discuss these, although Rachel had not objected outright. He was free to do what he wanted with his assets, she always thought, and they were his kids.

But suppose Glen had set the funds aside for Casey with his knowledge? Even in some sort of partnership, for instance teaching him how to invest or the value of compounding interest. What if Casey hadn't discovered the ghost email and the offshore account while he was cleaning out Glen's computer – what if he had known all along?

And where had Casey been back on that night? Rachel assumed at home in California, but who knew with Casey. Hadn't he woken them in the middle of the night a few years back, gleefully announcing that he had just landed in Tokyo, having spontaneously taken a courier gig and forgetting the time change? Who knows if he hadn't been in New York City for some reason – she had only talked to Hannah, she had not even tried Casey, who so often didn't answer his phone.

But that was ridiculous, she scolded herself. Glen would not have bothered with secretly meeting Casey, if anything he would have insisted that he join them for dinner and the show. Rachel shook her head forcefully, as if she could dislodge the voices stirring discontent. Ridiculous that he had been in New York. But undeniably it was Casey who knew about Glen's private email account. Who knew and never mentioned it, likely never would have mentioned it, until he realized Nick would track it down. Who absolutely would feel entitled, as he did with anything of Glen's, to the money. And she hadn't really thought about it, but somebody who knew about the account, the passwords and so on, wouldn't have needed Glen's laptop to log on.

She felt her heart racing a bit, anxious and yet unable to stop this line of reasoning. She could picture Casey taking logical linear steps to cover his or Glen's tracks, clicking away online in that dispassionate way he had, immune to the feelings of everyone in the world. Being honest, she could even picture the steps Glen might have taken, and the promises he would have secured from his son to keep it on the down low.

Rachel had to sit; her heart pounded as if she had run a 5k. She pushed her hands together at her heart to stop them from trembling, hard pressed to even put a label on her emotions. Anger, fear, fury, utter dread, all churning inside. Her eyes tracked to her little pill bottle collection, lined up neatly at the back of the kitchen counter. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to hold out at least for a little while, not dose herself stupid. As maybe she had been doing for months now, if not being blind to reality for longer, for years perhaps.

Rachel stood again. Stillness impossible, she felt as though she would shake apart from the inside out. She would buy groceries, she decided, walk to the little market, get exercise, food, and try to clear her head.

Try not to let her thoughts run away with her, but it was hard now, she was in the habit of following them wherever they meandered. Spending most evenings and weekends alone, just talking to the cats – maybe the real question was why she hadn't pursued this train of thought before?

Rachel tugged her jacket around her, taking in the cool breeze and contrasting bright sky. Those native grasses in her neighbor's yard gracefully fluttering, the tinkling of wind chimes and a few colorful holiday decorations still up. She stopped to say hello to the dog at the next house, a friendly aging Spaniel who always lumbered over for a pat.

There was not enough, though, not enough distraction anymore. Nod to a neighbor but in her head the questions raged. Why had Glen not ever even told her the password to his laptop? If they had it together, he always pulled it away, "I'll get that," all smooth, almost condescending, as if she was some senior, unable to figure things out. Why would he put money away and not tell her – she had never been possessive or even particularly concerned with his investment strategies. It was his job, she had trusted him, and they were, if not super well off, doing okay.

If she had been concerned about their finances, she certainly would have talked to him about it. She would have taken the first opportunity and shared all of her thoughts openly. After all, she had shared her actual worries with him over the years.

Blindly, she found the groceries she needed, paid the clerk, engaged in the harmless chit chat the way normal people did. Shouldered her canvas sack and wondered if someone looking at her could possibly imagine the roiling within.

She could phone Casey, but that wouldn't solve anything. Even if he answered – unlikely – he was a master at deflection. He would never admit he knew about the money, much less that he took it. Though he might give up some intel if he had discovered there had been another woman, Rachel thought. He would be jealous of his father's resources going anywhere else.

Back home, Rachel put stuff away and got a somewhat complicated recipe out to start her dinner. Distracted herself as much as she could with the ingredients, with measuring and timing, browning, simmering. But the distraction only got her mind somewhat disengaged.

Once the marinade was in the fridge, she sat at the computer, logged into facebook, and systematically investigated every one of Casey's many rambling posts. Not sure what she hoped to see; obviously he wouldn't outright say he'd hacked his dead dad's accounts or whatnot. But maybe she would find evidence of large purchases back then? Sudden trips, vacations he normally couldn't afford?

Rachel felt her eyes glazing over after awhile. He hadn't gone anywhere exotic or boasted of new purchases. No smoking guns, the opposite in fact. Back early last year, Casey's many friends had posted lovely heartfelt messages of sympathy and support. After that night, after the attack was all over the news and everyone knew Glen Voight had been a victim, Casey Voight's friends generously reached out. He hadn't said much. But he had, she saw, gone through and "liked" every one of his friends' posts, hundreds of them.

How quickly the attack was forgotten as other worse ones followed. Really, Rachel thought, if she wasn't getting check ins from the listserv, she would never hear about it in the local news. Surely there would be some mention at the one year anniversary, fast approaching, but really what more than lurid headlines, frightening pictures, ways to generate web traffic, nothing more. NYC, just another in the long list of places that has inadvertently hosted other monstrous attacks, Las Vegas, Fort Lauderdale, Orlando, San Bernardino, Boston, Newtown, Aurora, Columbine.

Rachel sat back, overwhelmed again, but in the old way. Imagining all across the country, across the world, the people who had lost people. The scars, the anniversaries, the fury and sorrow at the unfairness of it all. She thought bitterly about the election of Donald Trump (she still had a hard time with the phrase President Trump). Those scattered acts of terror had fed into his narrative. Never mind if the perpetrators were from here – they were seen as foreign, as an affront to the American way of life.

She stood, headed for the kitchen, willed the inner voices to stop.

Hannah phoned that evening, and at the sound of her voice, Rachel felt she had at least made some progress quelling her paranoia or whatever it was. At least she didn't jump right in with questions and demands, and they chatted about Hannah's new boyfriend and latest always grim news of the world.

"So Uncle Nickel called me," Hannah continued, and Rachel let out a long breath. "He told me how that account was cleared out, and that you guys talked. Which sucks, I guess, but I mean we didn't even know about it, so it's not like we even knew what was there to be lost."

"Well, it has been on my mind," Rachel said, trying to be diplomatic. "That your dad had been so secretive."

"I know, we talked about that too. And that you were worried about if he was cheating or something – that's why I wanted to call. I'm sure he wasn't. Not that Dad told me everything or whatever, but just, we did talk some. He checked in, I mean I had a pretty good idea of what he did with his time, and there just weren't those sort of gaps, those sort of secrets."

Rachel felt her breath stabilizing, her heart slowing to normal. "It's good to hear you say that," she said. "It's not that I really thought so, it's just that I'm trying to come up with reasonable explanations." She swallowed, and plunged forward. "I have to admit, I've wondered a little about Casey. The timing, you know? Whether he told everything he knew, or whether he had some idea about this already. If Glen had set aside money to help him out?" Her voice trailed off, fearful of offending Hannah.

Hannah answered immediately, calmly. "Oh, that hit me too, how he suddenly was all, yeah I knew about this email account and deleted it. But we had a long talk, long talk over Christmas. He was genuinely curious. And genuinely mad, I guess more than the rest of us, that somebody must have stolen the funds in the account."

"I suppose he would see it as stealing from him. From the two of you."

Hannah didn't deny this, but politely changed the subject.

Rachel admitted to investigating his facebook postings, to no avail. "It was sweet," she added, "to see the things his friends says. He does have a lot of friends."

"Well, yeah, on facebook. I have so called friends that I'm like, do I even know who that is? I'm sure Casey does too. It's kind of off putting, really, the way people you barely know want to glom onto your tragedy. Maybe that's just people my age."

"No, I know what you mean. I had people kind of crawling out of the woodwork back last year. Real people, not so much on social media."

"Yeah, you know what? We," Hannah used the word a bit self consciously, "are cutting back on screen time. Spending time together doing stuff, hiking, exploring, cooking, or even if it's dorky, like watching old movies."

"I've gotten pretty attached to the classic movie channel," Rachel admitted.

They talked movies for a bit. Rachel felt her mind drifting away. But her attention snapped right back when Hannah recalled a chat she'd had with her father. About an old movie, but particularly about his amusement at the premise of a person who disappears, how he took pleasure in pointing out all the things they got wrong. Hannah just laughed about this, a simple reminiscence about another of her dad's funny obsessive things.

Rachel told Hannah she had to go and finish up in the kitchen, and feed the girls. But what she really had to do was stop talking. Start thinking. She wondered if she was nuts even as pieces started sliding into place.

Glen assuredly did have a thing about starting fresh. She recalled him telling her, back when they were first dating, how carefully he needed to dispose of the debris of his failed marriage. How he felt that the kids should understand that this wasn't a continuation of their old life, with its tension and marital stress, but a new, better beginning. At the time, she had been mostly concerned with, yikes, I'm falling for a guy who has two children, will they hate me, and so on.

Now, in the calm of this quiet evening, 20 odd years later, Rachel replayed the conversations, or her faded memory of them. As if observing from above. He had bought a new place, driving distance but well away from where Bethany stayed, where they had lived for all the years since Hannah's birth. One of the reasons they had split, he had explained dispassionately, how Bethany had gotten so complacent with the kids, how she just wanted to loll and do her artwork, do the same things day after day, be taken care of rather than independent, even after the kids started school.

Rachel then: ha, I'm independent! Now: listen to how he criticizes finding what you like and sticking with it. Even then, the insistence on change and new and moving quickly forward. He had later, she was pretty sure, boasted about the degree to which he had left his old married life behind. Except for the kids, of course.

Now? Glen had been in his rut. Maybe he had longed to start over without them either. They were adults, after all. Hannah independent and living out of state, Casey needing, if anything, to be left alone to figure it out himself.

It's not that Glen would intentionally risk his life on a whim, she was pretty sure of that. She had mostly gotten over her anger at his choice to move, to escape the shooting at the bar by ducking into the nightclub. But what about that account – why would he be stashing away money, presumably making high stakes trades, avoiding taxes or avoiding the gain showing up on reports she would review and sign?

What if he had been planning some sort of move already? She remembered how he had introduced the idea of the New York trip. Not pressuring her exactly, just pointing out how rarely she chose to leave her quiet and predictable comfort zone. She had felt that choking anxiety, yes. That sense of dread, that intuition that something would go wrong. But she had also had the sense of being tested. That it was clear he would take the trip anyway. And if she didn't, well, it would be another notch, another reason the relationship was faltering. She had gone with him. But maybe he was anticipating the times when she wouldn't. Maybe he was already planning for his next move, his next leap, his new life without her holding him back.

What if that night had simply presented him with the opportunity to make a clean break, to start over fresh? What if Glen had hung onto the laptop, had made it out, what if Glen himself had been the one logging on and emptying his account?

_They never found a body._ That was one of the taglines of the Voights' particular tragedy. And that was the starting place of every such story, such cheesy movie, wasn't it, all those plot lines Glen enjoyed poking holes in.

Rachel stood again, paced, frightening the cats, who backed away, crouching and warily following her path with narrowed eyes. It had been odd, that those kids he followed into the club got away when he didn't. Odd that no identifiable DNA was located, but it was assumed he had been disoriented, stumbled farther inside, where the fire was most intense and all consuming. Then strange again that the computer was accessed later. Explanations arose for each separate thing, but wouldn't it make as much sense that he ducked through the one door and then through the other, laptop in hand, and then found a third, metaphorical door there in front of him – the chance to make a clean break from the prior life that was dragging him down?

Rachel went to the kitchen. Cooking and eating to calm her down, keep her from calling Nick, Harv, Casey, all of them, screaming accusations like a crazy person. It was crazy. And yet, her very deep gut feeling said otherwise. In a strange way she felt saner than she had all year.

This much time had gone by, so she could pass a few more hours, days even, figuring this all out.

# Chapter 7

It was like the early days after the Trump inauguration, Rachel thought. Suddenly being terribly, pitifully nostalgic for the world as it was mere weeks before. She sat at her doctor's office, stewing. Face cast in a frown, as per normal, ever since her gut wrenching revelation a couple weeks back.

Only now, instead of missing the smooth even tones and policies of a sane President, she reminisced somewhat bitterly about back when she innocently thought the best about her husband. Her late husband, so called.

Rachel was grimly aware that she was annoying people, alienating those who had been so supportive. But she couldn't help herself. She could not even say a kind word when someone spoke of Glen, and no doubt her anger popped up immediately on her face. So many lies, countless lies he must have told, to her, to his friends and family. How long had she been duped, how soon had it all started? Where was he now, how long before a man who looked like him turned up under a new name?

And so on. Glen's buddy Harv would no longer take her calls. He was too gracious to call her crazy, but he didn't believe a word of it. He stuck by his friend and continued to accept all the unverifiable twists in the story as the only possible truth.

But truth was sticky these days, wasn't it, everybody with their alternative facts. Nick had heard her out at least. He had argued her points, but more as an intellectual game than Harv's flat out denials. Beyond that, Nick was evasive. He swore he would tell her if Glen somehow showed up, resurrected from beyond. But he saw zero chance of that happening – if Rachel had been duped, then so had he, and he would be as angry as she was. The only thing he asked was that she not get Casey inflamed with the idea that Glen was still out there somewhere. Rachel agreed, though she would admit to having thought of using Casey's online snooping skills. But frankly, Glen would have thought of that too – and unless he was trapped in the World of Warcraft, Casey probably couldn't trace him.

That was one of Glen's things, she mused. He scoffed at how the people who got caught – and generally this meant finance people, business execs, but it was applicable – how they left such obvious clues online. They sent incriminating texts, they placed calls and kept their phones on, beacons that showed their movements, they even searched items that tied them to their crimes.

She felt visited with quiet certainty, even in the cluttered, busy waiting room: Glen would think of that before literally hiding – he'd go dark in order to hide, he'd drop off the internet, and he would get himself somewhere where you didn't need an online presence to survive.

An aide poked her head out and called another name. Across from her, a heavyset older woman rose and made her way toward the door, waving off the young aide's outstretched hand. Rachel wondered if she was married and resenting that her husband wasn't here, or if she was single and determined not to need assistance. Or if she was widowed. Learning independence again, but at least with the comfort of having buried the dead body.

"He's backed up, sorry," called out the receptionist.

Rachel nodded, trying to reset her expression to something mild. She was not angry at the staff here. Just Glen. Whom she now pictured, following her earlier thought, at one of the New York airports, Newark, probably, with a low billed cap shadowing his face and paying cash for a ticket out of town. Or catching a train – wouldn't the airline need ID? – or even buying a junker used car. That night. Turning his back on the frantic news reports and hardening his heart against the suffering he must have known he would bring to her and the kids.

Her name was called before she could pursue this vision further, and she worked to rearrange her expression into something cheerful or at least normal. This visit was routine, or as routine as it got after the trauma of the past eleven months. Her doctor – busy though he was – knew the particulars of her case, had readily prescribed the sedatives and then anti-depressants and sleeping pills. He asked how she was doing in a manner that went beyond pro forma.

Rachel had to stop herself from spilling out the whole thing. But she could honestly say that she was feeling stronger than she had been, and more like her normal self. She admitted to cutting back on the meds and to her desire to be thinking more clearly.

"There's feeling better, and there is recovery," he said. Voice deep, confident, doctorly. This was a man who was perhaps 40, but who had a degree, who felt certain he knew all the secrets of the human heart and mind. "You feel improved from the initial shock, from your devastating loss. But I'd caution against moving too fast, Rachel. You are still looking at set backs – the medication can soften those edges."

"Doctor, I'm feeling—" Rachel paused, to frame the words in a way that would not sound unhinged. "I have learned some things recently that lead me to believe that my husband was planning to leave me anyway. So that has sort of recast my feelings. It's not good news of course, but it makes me less, volatile maybe?" She stopped, already caught in a lie. She was plenty volatile these days.

He frowned even as he gave that perfunctory I-hear-you nod. I hear you but you sound sadly deluded, his expression said. "Well, I suppose that must be an adjustment for you. Just the same, better safe than sorry. I'd like to see you keep up your prescription. We can check back in," his eyes flicked towards his screen, "three months."

He had more to say about dosages and timing, but Rachel tuned him out. For all the downsides about being over 50, an upside was that you didn't always have to do what people told you to do anymore. The doc would not buy it that Glen could still be alive, that was for sure. Rachel had already stopped suggesting it after her initial round of conversations. Harv, Nick, Carol, Darrie – all had different ways of saying it, but all of them saw her as pitiful and rationalizing.

Rachel was done with that too, done with worrying about what people thought about her state of mind. Instead she left the office. She would fill her prescription, have the medication on hand just in case. But she intended to keep her mind clear now. Sharp and suspicious, in a way she should have been months ago, years ago.

Headed home, she found herself replaying some of those cheerful little Glen scenarios, the ones she used to sooth herself to sleep with – but now they lacked that earlier happy glow. She recalled the times Hannah was on her way and they were late in getting everything ready, rushing around. Why? Because Glen's head was who knows where, because he said he'd be home but was late as always, though offered no good reason, not even an excuse. He had just depended on Rachel to be prepared, to have everything thought out and ready (including that Casey may stop by with Glen giving only 10 minute's warning).

And then Glen would watch her later, when they were upstairs getting ready for bed. Dour expression, a big fat frown for how she could possibly be so tired, seeming so old. Such a home body, when she had just created a pleasurable evening for them all. Recent years especially, he always had to mention the amazing trip this or that other friend had planned. Oh yes, the wife was totally on board with six weeks backpacking in the wilderness, or driving an off road vehicle through the Australian outback. Long sigh, veiled look, if only he had been so lucky in choosing an adventurous wife.

Back at the house, she tucked the meds away in the bathroom cabinet. Plenty of room there now, with none of Glen's things cluttering it up. She recalled her earlier tears when she had cleaned it out – sentimental over the stash of pricey lotion he used, vanity she had once found endearing. His ED pills that he had for awhile even hidden from her; imagine his horror that anyone would see those. Why not just admit it, Glen, that you needed some help?

Rachel closed the cabinet door, and faced herself in the mirror. If her expression was hard, so be it. She was facing reality now. Not another minute to waste on sorrow. She attempted a smile before turning away, but it just looked phony.

Well, she still owed it to the kids to at least appear to be sad about him. Good that she hadn't gone running to either of them with her theories. If Hannah or Casey figured it out on their own, they could come to her. She wondered for a moment if he would contact either of them, how shocking that would be. Hannah would be devastated, and Casey, who knows how he would react. Something self destructive probably. Should she warn them?

But that would just come off like so much more crazy talk. Better if she could somehow track him down herself. Just let him know of her fury, and warn him off, out of their lives forever.

Try as she might to quell it, this idea took hold of her. Locating him, making sure he knew she was onto him, telling him off. It was becoming her obsession. The way Nick had worried endlessly over Glen's computer, the way she herself had earlier played and replayed scenes from the marriage.

Everything she did circled her mind back: cooking, what was he eating these days? He would have to be cautious about being a regular at some little café. Working, she wondered if he was still making money on trades, using an alias or something, or employed by someone else. Even if he had saved up a lot (especially offshore, not taxed), Glen would be bored without the task of making money, the thrill of playing the market, guessing trends and gambling. When she got in her Prius, she ran through makes and models he might be driving, cars with enough pep and prestige for him but not so showy that he would be a target.

Rachel even found herself speculating on what he would do to relax. What his weekends were like, where he might now choose to go on vacation without her holding him back. Of course his choices would still be limited, he would have to go anonymously, away from the glare of New York's media or even places with lots of public cameras. More and more that was a thing, right, she thought. You'd hear of a crime and then there would be footage from various angles, this and that security feed capturing every step a person took in a public place.

Well, he would want to avoid airports these days, assuming he had some sort of fake ID. Border crossings too. All those airline miles he had accumulated – too bad, wasn't it, he had no way to claim them and they would be useless to someone with an assumed name. On the other hand, Rachel herself had quite a lot of points and miles, her own and those that had become hers from their joint accounts. She could choose to go any number of places. Back to Maui, for instance, only spend more time on the beach and less rising at dawn and climbing mountains in search of Glen's perfect sunrise.

Something poked at her from the back of her mind. Who was it, Nick? Talking about Glen, talking about where he felt most at peace. Not Hawaii but Cabo.

She felt a metaphorical whoosh in her head, another sense of puzzle pieces fitting together. The borders coming into the country would be problematic for a man pretending to be dead. Not so much the borders leaving. He could have gotten a car and made his way slowly across the country, small towns, paying cash. A fake ID, a "borrowed" US passport would come easy enough if you had the cash. He could have driven into Mexico and straight down the coast to his favorite spot, Cabo.

Glen had been there numerous times. One of the guys had some sort of time share, and he and his friends had a few places they liked to stay, a couple fishing boats they preferred to hire, favorite little cafés. Glen – this was so like him, that innocent/ignorant white man privilege – claimed that the people he knew down there were happy people, who really liked him. He meant the Mexicans who lived in Cabo San Lucas and captained the boats they hired for fishing expeditions, the guys who drove their hired cars for the week, the cooks and hotel staff.

Rachel could recall, even from a decade plus back, that overwhelming sense of inequity she herself had observed. Pampered tourists lounging by pools with views of the ocean, lush lawns and lovely blossoming flowers. But it was desert country, every bit of landscaping had to be carefully tended. Most actual residents were poor by US standards, and those well watered lawns and cheerful greetings were what they had to provide to make their living.

She doubted things had changed much in the years since – if anything the extremes of poverty and wealth must have widened, like they had everywhere. Was it still a Spring Break mecca? Probably those little towns along the coast had all expanded, built more resorts to attract the tourist dollars. But that meant a humming economy, didn't it. A man, even a formerly privileged gringo, could probably find a way to get by down there.

Cabo. Rachel did not move fast; she had never been one to act impulsively and that had not changed. But carefully and precisely, she put a new plan in motion. She had vacation time available, and it was slow at the shelter, and her volunteer shifts were expendable. There were lots of travel points. Information and reservations were a breeze online. She would miss the cats, but they would be okay for a little while. And – this made the whole thing reasonable – she would not go alone. She invited Hannah and her boyfriend Ian to come with her.

It would make for a completely reasonable way for them to escape the one year anniversary of the nightclub bombing and fire. She would not have wanted to be here bereft and alone even if thinking the best of Glen. Hannah had grown up hearing her dad's stories of the good times he had down there, of course it was a place she might visit. She and Ian were still a new couple, happy together wherever they found themselves and charmed at the idea of a free week at a lovely and sunny resort.

Rachel felt like she was finding her bearings again, a plan in place and lists of clearly defined things to do. Everything from remind the kids that they would need passports, sunblock even this time of year, to scouting out places to eat online. It was silly, she had thought before, all those over-priced Euro themed places, rather than eating regular inexpensive Mexican food while actually in Mexico. She found a cheap car service, and they could walk or take the ubiquitous taxis in town. Chose the right sort of place to stay – a small place, ground floor without a view, but a suite with a little kitchen, bedrooms set on either side.

It wasn't hard to arrange for the tickets for the three of them with Glen's fancy concierge system from his top credit card, and their flights from SFO and Seattle would arrive within half an hour of each other. She even made an activities list, beaches they might check out, reputable paddle board rental places, that sort of thing. Hannah and Ian should not think that they had to babysit her, she made clear to Hannah, they should feel free to do their own things. Unspoken, she amended that she too would need to do her thing, unencumbered: chase down Glen.

She scheduled Minx's vet visit a full week before their departure. Plenty of time for the little cat to get over the irritation of the carrier, the car ride, the indignity of her examination. They, now she, took the cats in on different schedules, and Bella had had her check up several months back.

Friday morning, her day off, so time to corral the cat as well as soothe her afterwards, but still it meant for a challenging morning. Rachel was so sensitive as to sleep poorly just anticipating her cat's distress, and little Minx mirrored her, hyper vigilant to her peoples' emotions.

Minx mewed indignantly and the piteously, fooled again into following a treat into her carrier and then trapped in a loud bouncy car ride. By the time they arrived they were both a bit of a basket case. The clinic at least separated cats and dogs in the waiting area, and they were soon called in to the exam room. Of course Minx had no intention of departing from her carrier now, despite her earlier objections. The vet had seen it all though, and assured her that little females like this could be the most feisty in just such circumstances. That much Rachel knew from her SPCA work.

At last, they carried Minx off for her blood work, and Rachel went back to the front, feeling limp with relief that it was almost over, stepping around a man who was urgently talking to the receptionist. She couldn't help but overhear, his cat had gotten out and he was worried that she had eaten something poisonous.

Rachel pulled out her phone just to not be eavesdropping, but offered a sympathetic smile when he sat next to her.

"They think she'll be okay," he said, though his expression still held concern. "Basically if it was bad, she wouldn't have made it this long. Sorry to over share, I'm just worried."

"Oh, of course. A cat can't tell you what's wrong, just that something is. I think if you're attuned to your pet even a little, you know when something is wrong. For myself, I get anxious just bringing my girl in at all."

"Yeah, that was part of what was so concerning this morning – normally she would struggle and yowl the whole way here, and this time she just sat there, purring even."

"Cats sometimes purr to soothe themselves if they're stressed," Rachel said. "I volunteer at the SPCA every Friday, I've seen it there," she added, not wanting to sound like a know it all.

"Oh, that's great, that must be so rewarding."

"It is." She smiled. "Lots of times people say it must be so sad, but it's really not."

The reception phone buzzed. A minute later, the receptionist said, "Luke, that was the doctor. He does think she ate something, but she'll be okay. They're giving her fluids and it should flush out of her system in a day or so."

A smile lit up his face like the sun bursting through a cloud.

"How long have you had her?" Rachel asked.

"She's just three. I got her as a kitten. After – well, she came at a hard time for me and we got pretty attached. She's the funniest cat I've ever had." He clicked his phone to a photo, and showed it to her: a darling calico. "Is your cat okay?"

Rachel would have let it go, but Luke seemed genuinely interested. She explained that it was a routine visit, and showed him a favorite picture of both girls standing nose to nose.

They exchanged a couple cat stories. His relief about his cat, his sense of joy even, was pleasantly soothing. Rachel felt as calm as she ever had while sitting in this waiting room. It was like the better of the exchanges she had with potential adopters at the SPCA.

Shortly the receptionist called out her name, and she paid and then left with Minx now huddled quietly in the carrier.

Once she was home she didn't have much more to do for the upcoming trip than pack. Unlike Glen, she did like to get this sort of thing done early, to give herself time to try things on and figure out what she would really need. So that she could go into her work week calmly, do a bit here and there, and be all ready for an early night to try and get decent rest before the flight.

# Chapter 8

Once the anxiety of the airport, security, the flights and customs were behind them, Rachel felt as if she was waking up to sunshine after a long winter night. Or going outside after too long cooped up under dull florescent lighting. Los Cabos airport was small and bright, and the clear sky and warm air just outside beckoned.

Hannah and Ian found their driver, and all three of them stashed away their luggage and happily shed their jackets. It was gorgeously warm and warmly beautiful here, even on the plain road headed out from the airport.

"Too warm? More AC?" the driver asked, and all three of them exclaimed no.

He grinned. "Seattle. So rainy."

Ian had on a Mariner's baseball cap, Rachel realized. The driver was friendly and nice, just like Glen swore everyone was. His English was good, accent charming. The kids asked a few questions about the places they passed outside.

Rachel turned toward her window, just trying to take everything in. Low buildings, some more traditional architecture, some clearly modern places, recently built. Landscaping bursting with colorful flowers, and other pastel succulents dotting the sides of the roads. A person or two visible working, and a few other cars, but none of the standard congestion of Bay Area roads.

Rachel was visited with a vision of Glen. First, she pictured him with the guys, his friends that he came here with, imagining them flying along this little highway in one of those bigger vans, cracking _cervesas_ in the back, getting started on the fun and catching up, kidding each other, boasting, one-upping the way they always did. Then the picture changed to Glen last spring. Driving some little beater car, shedding his paranoia as he finally reached his destination after his frightening brush with death and wildly impulsive leap out of his prior staid life. She could easily see his facial expression, how his mouth would turn upwards into an irrepressible grin even while his eyes would be widened, darting around, mirroring the multiple tracks on his mind... was it too late to go back, to turn himself in, claim a concussion or something, and thank God for the money, here was the place he could finally find himself, be in the moment. Live spontaneously, free of the burden of his job, his clients, his dreary wife.

She shook these thoughts from her head, and joined the conversation with Hannah and Ian. Gazed with wonder at the glimpses of the ocean off to the left, peaking through gentle green hills and then suddenly there in all its glory as they crested a hill and wound around a small rocky beach.

"Oh, there's no one there," Hannah exclaimed. "We should go there, is that on our list?"

The driver told them the name of the place, assuring them there were many such tiny, empty beaches all along the coast.

Hannah smiled widely. "We need more than a week, don't we?"

Ian grinned back, offering a sweet shoulder rub. But Rachel turned away. Her smile was so like her father's – that particular smile, that I-want-to-get-away-with-something expression. Her anger at Glen had been at her constantly these days, like her own private source of fuel. But it punched at her nonetheless, that she would never see that smile on him again. Never exchange looks with him the way the kids were doing, little grins and raised eyebrows saying as much as words could.

Even if she did actually locate him – which was a long shot, she got that – you could be sure that they would not be exchanging loving marital glances. She would be shouting, he would be running, darting out into traffic to avoid a confrontation with her. Or perhaps she would not recognize him; he must have disguised himself. Grown a beard no doubt, and perhaps rinsed the gray out of his hair, telling himself it was to avoid recognition. Maybe she should do something like that too, Rachel thought, so he wouldn't see her coming, picturing herself a redhead or bleach blonde. She should at least get an uncharacteristically garish scarf or wrap to wear. She laughed to herself – once they were settled, she could claim the need to shop, and that would separate her from the kids at once.

But once they did arrive, they all three did little more than toss their stuff into the rooms before changing into swimsuits and heading for the closest beach, just a tantalizing block away. Sorry, Glen, Rachel thought, I've moved on enough that I need to take a dip in the ocean and sit on the sand before I bother hunting you down.

Oh, it was delicious down here, Rachel would have to admit. The wide sandy beach, the little waves lapping the shore, shimmering aqua sea stretched out to the horizon, wispy clouds offering a bit of cover from the bright afternoon sun. The water was the perfect temperature, as was the air, and the aroma of salty sea water and sand were intoxicating. A few people sat out on towels, others strolled peacefully along the water's edge. Everyone smiling. In the distance, she could see the tops of the taller boats in the harbor. She could hear distant cries of water birds, and the churning of one of those little water taxis ferrying people out toward the point.

She dipped in and out of the water a few times before settling on her towel, coating her pale skin with sun block, lying back to soak it all in. Hannah and Ian were swimming farther out, trying to skin dive in the small swells, grinning widely. Yes, everyone looked joyful here. Every person she could see was a tourist, though. In the distance, walking toward her, was a bent over woman, dark skinned, weather worn, toting a large bag. She would come smiling too, Rachel thought, but because she wanted them to buy a handbag or key chain or something.

She told herself to stop being cynical and negative. She thought about Glen, Mr. Cheerful himself down here. He could have set himself up with one of his so called friends, she thought, perhaps trading his skills at dealing with obnoxious Americans for a free room at one of the numerous hotels. Or he could still be investing, or advising his local friends and taking a cut, she supposed. For that matter, he might have bought a place – who knows how much he had stashed away? He could have that much foresight and then be that impulsive. Setting up his new life, he would surely go all out.

Around the time she felt toasty enough to get out of the sun, Hannah reminded her that she and Ian would be taking care of grocery shopping and making dinner the first night, in appreciation of her hosting them. Raised right, Rachel thought with a smile. She vaguely said she would do a little window shopping, needing to get out of the sun.

Back at the suite, she changed into casual walking clothes, and tucked her phone and credit cards and cash into the small over the shoulder bag that she deemed at least slightly more dignified than a fanny pack. She recalled that most places accepted US dollars here. Also that vendors felt no scruples about upping their prices if the customer looked like a wealthy American. Rachel gave a glance in the mirror before heading out. Pale skinned nicely dressed 50 something in expensive walking sandals – there wasn't much she could do about that.

She did buy herself a wildly bright teal, pink and gold scarf at the first little place that offered them cheap, just down the block as she headed toward the center of town. She felt a sure of energy as she wrapped it around her head and felt the silky ends fluttering behind her in the breeze. Maybe she would become a different person down here too, she thought. Someone who takes action and doesn't just accept what he had done.

Rachel did not have much time that first day. The time change meant it was later here, and she was tired from the travel – yes, from leaving the comfort zone of her day to day life, but also from the stress of all the people, the crowded flight, the unaccustomed sun having burnished her skin.

The three of them quickly developed a pattern. Mornings, they all arose bright and early, ate fresh fruit and yogurt and cereal in the tiny kitchen, and hurried out to try something new. One day they took the water taxi over to explore the rock formations and lovely views at Land's End, another they went on a hiking tour of a gorgeous subtropical forest. Rachel watched and took pictures as Hannah and Ian zoomed up in the air paragliding and tried paddle boarding. They made lunches back at the suite. Then the kids usually headed quickly out for one or another beach, while Rachel took her time, stayed out of the midday sun, read her book or noodled around online, "liking" stuff her sister had posted, casually catching up on the news.

That was a prelude though, or an avoidance to admitting what came next. She could tell herself lies or rationalize that she was just seeing the sights, preventing sunburn. But what she was doing was tracking Glen.

And it was time consuming and thought provoking. She had a paper map of the town, and with google maps she noted the location of the places he might have landed. Hotels, smallish, run down, places where a live-in caretaker might be needed. The piers with the less touristy fishing boats. Even restaurants with living spaces attached. He would be connected with some sort of business, she was sure of it. He would dwell in a neat, compact space, with maybe only a fridge and a microwave, but wifi for sure. In fact, with each photo she posted, each cheerful image of Hannah especially, she imagined that Glen was seeing it too, a friend of a friend, a fake facebook troll. He would be driven further into hiding; perhaps also freshly mortified. Look at your daughter, Glen. Look at your wife and your child and how they are moving past you and your so called demise.

People, locals as she strayed off the beaten tourist track, looked her over but let her alone. She chose to interpret this as decent manners even from the non-service industry people, rather than feel slighted, remembering instances wandering through strange cities as a young woman, the unrelenting attention and cheesy pick up lines. Hopefully even younger or more scantily clad women didn't have to put up with so much hassle anymore, she thought. Anyway, the important thing was that she felt safe, unthreatened, and free to poke around the back streets and small alleys.

She even felt emboldened enough to initiate a few conversations, stumbling through a phrase or two in Spanish before the person graciously switched to English. She had a photo of Glen on her phone, though not much of an explanation of why she was seeking him out, here on the back streets. But no one would admit to having seen him; no one even offered a hint of where she might look. Whether this was because all the gringos looked alike or some ethical code of the protecting those who went missing on purpose, she couldn't tell.

Some of the smaller streets went at odd angles, and it was easy to get lost. Yet not so hard to get found either – she merely had to get to a place where she could spot water, then make her way back towards the bay. The main streets, the ones with the nice restaurants and busy clubs, teemed with tourists. Walking here, Rachel saw one then another man who looked like Glen. It was disturbing, really.

Glen had that small hitch in his walk – he appeared to be ambling even when he was in a hurry. He had the thinning hair on top, like so many men, and he tended toward loose t-shirts that made him look sinewy and fit. Each afternoon Rachel found herself trailing such a man, watching the low hang of his khakis or the way his hair wound past his collar in need of a trim. And she had a moment, she felt her chest tighten, her breath clench.

And then the guy would turn toward the wife walking along side him, and the profile was all wrong. Or she would realize this guy was 40 something, or his skin was naturally dark and not just tanned. Or see that he was too tall or too short or not in fact like Glen at all, except for being male and in her direct line of vision. These men, one after another, would glance away, smile, or calmly nod, not bothered by the borderline obsessive stare of a tense bodied 55 year old woman. Probably thinking it was their due, probably ready to tell the other guys about how they still had a way with the ladies.

Rachel walked herself to a tired near stupor each afternoon, and then finally came to rest at the back deck of a little place that overlooked the main beach. She could sit and nurse an iced tea or fruit drink, rest her feet, and try to untangle her rambling rabid thoughts. She told herself it was ridiculous to think she would actually find him. He would duck away if he saw her coming, he lived here now, he knew the place. Anyway, how could she boast of moving on if she clung to this obsession?

You're on vacation, she told herself. Enjoy it. And for a little while it was enough – to be sitting there sipping this cold, wildly delicious drink, in the breezy warmth of the afternoon. Shaded and cool, her comfortable chair angled toward the beach, bright and wide just beyond a flower laden railing.

Now and then someone would say hello, another tourist, and they would exchange a few platitudes about the abundant beauty all around. Oh, if only we could stay here, not looking forward to cold weather back at home and a stack of emails back at work, that sort of thing. And then Rachel found herself tracking Glen's trajectory once again.

For surely, he would have brimmed with those thoughts at first. He would have felt so vividly and mightily free. He would have arrived with fat wads of cash in his hands, and local friends to set him up – guys he had met here, and she was pretty sure he knew some retirees who kept places down here. Men who would sympathize with a guy trying to escape the dull but lethal clutches his prior life, who would admire him for how little baggage he brought, how little space and material things he needed to set up his new life.

He would have worked busily and happily to leave that old life behind, as was his pattern. Close that door to the past good and tight. As for the kids, would it really be so different from the contact they had had these past few years? Hannah up north, Casey always so scattered and hard to pin down – surely he could track them both on facebook, the way they already had been doing. Only instead of leaning over her shoulder to view posts and pictures on her account, he would have some backhanded way of checking in. For all she knew he might be using her own account; she made a mental note to change her password.

The point was, Rachel thought, it made their twenty years together feel like a fraud. All that time invested in the relationship, learning the ins and outs of each others' random preferences, the silly squabbles they had learned how to finesse, the vigorous sex and the quiet moments lying there chatting after – all of it a waste. An investment with no future.

She returned to the studio, no longer appreciative of the warm air and glimpses of the water, missing the cats, missing even the regular meals she usually had back home. But, like it was an important assignment, she posted several photos and captioned them to display what a wonderful time they were having.

The next day, their last, was that day, the anniversary. Rachel had spoken glibly earlier about just shutting out the news and social media altogether. Hannah had agreed, back when it was far away. But tonight, they stayed in, ate a light dinner that Rachel threw together with some fresh fish Ian had picked up from a guy at the dock.

The subject, the anniversary date, hovered like an unwelcome and uninvited guest. It would not be ignored.

Hannah set her plate aside, and Ian gently moved her remaining food to his plate. "It's nice," she said. "I just can't eat anymore. I can't help it, I keep remembering."

"That's okay," Rachel said. "I know. It's hard."

"It's like, everything was fine and then I decided to watch some stupid thing on TV," she said to Ian, who nodded, clearly not hearing this for the first time. "As if nothing would have changed if I hadn't wanted to watch – I mean I know that's dumb, but that's how it felt. Then boom, We Interrupt This Program, and I'm like, hey, aren't Dad and Rachel in New York, have they heard about this? And then when you called, I had this bad feeling like I already knew, like it had all been waiting to happen." Hannah's eyes glistened with tears, but she shook her head, as if shaking them off.

"You were the one who kept me together," Rachel told her, tearing up herself. Whatever feelings she now silently harbored toward Glen, she still felt the pull of emotion recalling Hannah's role. "You flew all that way and got me out of there."

Ian patted Hannah's shoulder.

He was a good one, Rachel thought. Sensitive enough to realize that his particular recollections of the night of the bombing and fire were not part of this exchange.

"I got pretty mad later," Hannah said. "I'm sorry, Ian's heard this a lot. But I was like, really, Dad? Why would you go to a club where no one else was over 30, you know?"

Rachel nodded. She did know. "It's okay to be angry," she said, echoing every therapist's voice she could remember. "Whatever you're feeling is valid."

"I know. You sound like my shrink." Hannah laughed, though her eyes were still reddened with tears. "God, he would have given me crap about going to a shrink, but he pretty much lost the chance to criticize when he went and died like that, okay?"

No one spoke. Rachel could not think of a thing to say that wouldn't convey her own bitterness.

"I'm sorry," Hannah finally said. "You were so nice to bring us down here, get us away from the news and everything, and I know it's awful for you too."

"My feelings are complicated too," Rachel said, but she stopped there. Hannah didn't need to hear anything further from her about her beloved father. "But you're right, I wanted us to be down here in this pretty place, this place your dad liked so much. We'll call Casey tomorrow. Get a special bottle of wine, raise our glasses."

"Some super heavy red," Hannah said with a soft giggle. "Or maybe we should debate all the choices and ask the waiter a lot of questions first."

As Glen would do. They all laughed, and the mood lightened. Ian clicked open his phone to list off places they might go on their last day.

# Chapter 9

They got through the day, the anniversary. Nobody slept well. Despite her best efforts, Rachel and probably Hannah too recalling those anguished days back in New York a year ago. But once they were up, they tried to enjoy their final day in Cabo.

It was not, probably never had been, big news in a resort town in Mexico, so they were spared front page photos, lengthy essays, tear jerking click bait images. In fact, Rachel made a point to turn off her phone once she had acknowledged the kind messages from family and friends. She would spend time online when she was back home, she promised herself, read all the pieces in the Times, catch up on the listserv. Just not here, not yet.

Hannah was sober as her thumbs flew across her phone. She must have dozens of friends checking in, searching for the right words. Or maybe they just used emojis now. Rachel found herself choking back a wholly inappropriate chuckle as she tried to envision just what that would look like. Dammit, she could tell herself she was coping well, then her mind would still veer off like this, swooping across the emotional spectrum and out of her control.

At least she gave the appearance of appropriate behavior, Rachel thought, somber but calm. They all did, and after awhile they headed to the beach in the bright sunshine as if it was just another day in paradise. She followed the kids right into the water, not caring at all that her hair would be a mess or her skin exposed to the sun.

After a makeshift lunch, they decided to walk up the beach for a bit and take some last photos of the pretty scenery. Hannah and Ian said they had something great to show her, and that turned out to be that they had discovered no one was really checking to see if you belonged at some of those fancy resorts. You just had to breeze in like you owned the place, and nobody objected. In fact they had been offered fresh towels yesterday.

Rachel felt any ethical considerations drain straight away, and she followed them, all three choking back laughs like teenagers. So here's how the other half, or more likely the one percent, lived. With the wide beach as a backdrop, here were cushiony lounge chairs, several clear water pools and a luxuriously large jacuzzi. There were indeed young workers bringing towels, and even a place you could order drinks and set them on a wide counter right in the pool.

Suddenly it seemed like nowhere else could be as perfect as this, keeping cool in the shade, dipping between pools and the hot tub, gazing out at the gently lapping bay toward the aquamarine horizon.

"I'm kind of picturing Dad here," Hannah said after awhile. They had their chairs loosely grouped so that her legs extended into the sun while Rachel and Ian stayed shaded. "He would tell us not to waste money, but I'm sure those guys he hung out with would insist on this, like, level of comfort."

"One of them has a condo down here," Rachel said. "Or he did. A fellow your dad knew from school."

"Yeah, Rich, I remember him, he came to our house a couple times when we were kids."

"Great name," Ian added. "Appropriate."

"He was rich all right. No kids. I'm pretty sure Dad envied his lifestyle." Hannah said this with a smile, but her eyes weren't in it.

It would be years, decades maybe, Rachel thought, before Hannah could speak about her father without her face showing something of that anxious sense of abandonment. Their eyes met for a moment. If there was ever a time for Rachel to discuss her suspicions about Glen, or for Hannah to ask, this was it.

But instead, they all three gazed toward the horizon. Nothing but blue sky, blue water. No missing men in sight.

After that, Rachel could feel them all pulling apart. A quiet dinner, cleaning and packing for an early ride to the airport in the morning. Hannah and Ian online, exchanging short choppy phrases about work matters, clicking quickly through posts from friends. While she tried to put a good face forward too. Not getting nervous about the flight, swallowing her worries about the cats. And acknowledging to herself the futility of her secret searching. She had had a nice vacation, much needed, the first in a few years honestly. Since that trip to Maui. Unexpectedly, Rachel saw Glen in her mind's eye, not as a sneaky coward, avoiding her on these small streets, but as he had been then. Delighted by what they discovered together.

She went to bed early, although she suspected sleep would be elusive. She tried to fill her mind with images from the day, perfect little clips of the beach, that gorgeous cloudless sky above the bay, even the silky water of the rich peoples' pools. It worked for awhile, and she drifted toward sleep or at least away from nervous awakeness. But into her soft sleepiness came those images of Glen. There in Hawaii, eyes bright with enthusiasm. Glen from years back, Glen the animal lover as they picked out the cats. And – she woke back up at this point – Glen's face as he turned away that very last time, back in New York. Before she drifted off again, it occurred to her that she was neither heartbroken or furious about him. He was just there, and then he wasn't there.

Everything seemed to go a lot faster on the return trip: they raced back to the airport early in the morning, checked into their on time flights and were quickly headed home. Alone and not caring about anyone's judgement, Rachel plugged herself into a silly movie, and then snoozed the remainder of the flight, making up for last night's sleeplessness.

Back home, Rachel gloried in the happy reunion with the cats. Minx forgave her absence at once, and wound around her legs purring furiously, claiming every inch of her. Bella tried to stay aloof, but soon agreed to be petted while she nibbled on a treat. Rachel had lots to do before heading back to work tomorrow, but her essential self remained calmly on island time. There were things to be done, and she would do them. But first she would enjoy these moments with these creatures she loved.

Eventually Rachel and the cats were parted. Food, sorting bills, unpacking. Calls to return; she had been checking messages but postponing actually dealing with stuff until she got back.

Now she started with Casey – she had promised herself to check in, having just spent the whole week with Hannah. He was of course not answering his phone, but she left a long message with highlights from the trip as well as confirmation that nothing new had come in about the mystery account. Casey seemed to be the only one still concerned about that whole thing, and Rachel told herself that this was his way of trying to control the uncontrollable. He wasn't just after the money. In his own unique way he did not even care about money, not the way most people did, she thought. He just hated the idea of other people getting anything he couldn't get from his dad.

She reached Nick at least. He told her that he had gone bodily to Casey's new workplace and taken him to lunch yesterday, the anniversary day. "Thank you, Nick, I'm so glad you two were together. It was comforting to be with Hannah."

"Yeah, well, we didn't really talk about it at all," Nick said with a quick grunted laugh. "We talked about tech stuff, his job and all. I know, guys. Face it, that's how Glen would handle the emotional stuff too, right?"

"I guess so." Rachel told him about Cabo, the things Hannah and Ian tried out, sneaking into the resort. She said nothing about her furtive afternoon searches for Glen. He pointedly made no mention of his brother either, or of Rachel's recent paranoid ramblings on the subject of whether Glen was in fact a year dead or merely off somewhere hiding.

Saying nothing, yes, that was the Voight's way of handling such things. Keep it light, just ignore the things gone wrong, pretend away any frustrations or emotional stuff until somebody needs to take off and start over. But Rachel found she herself happy enough with light chatting with Nick, and they said goodbye as they might have any time over the past decade. See ya, take care. Though it occurred to Rachel there probably wouldn't be many of these calls anymore. When would she ever see Nick again, maybe if Hannah got married, or if Nick and Maddie ever did?

Rachel called for the cats and headed, delightfully early, to the comfort of her own bed.

Morning came, and she woke refreshed. Work was as ever – the usual extra pile of messages and requests, despite someone having filled in her hours. Back on autopilot, tedium broken by friendly chats with her co-workers, showing pictures and reminiscing about the best beaches and meals and the pleasure of sitting around doing nothing.

It didn't take long for Rachel to lose that glowy relaxed feeling, though. Her freckly suntan lasted longer. The job was tedious, now more than ever for having been working here so many years. But it was a relief, she thought as the first week home ended and then the second began, that she felt just so normal. Mildly pleased by some small things, slightly annoyed by things slightly annoying. But not the wider stretches of emotion that she had become accustomed to these past months. She felt better now, for having taken those long walks on the back streets of Cabo. And not just the exercise, but maybe the exorcising of some mental demons. Not seeing Glen there, not having her imagined furious encounter – it didn't mean she was wrong about him being alive somewhere. But maybe it would let her just live the rest of her life without it mattering so much.

Rachel knew she was not one hundred percent okay. How could she ever be? But she was off the meds, and back on something resembling even keel.

Her regular Fridays at the shelter were much more pleasant than work. There was good news about the cats – several longer term adults had gone home. Plus a new crew of volunteers was getting started, learning the ropes. Nice people, animal people all of them. People to exchange cat stories with, people who had never heard her own favorite stories. And of course who didn't know Rachel's sad story either – they could get to know her first before seeing her as the tragic widow.

Her first customers just wanted to see kittens. They already knew that wanted a pair, and Rachel didn't need to do more than just stand there, being entertained by the feline antics, until a tabby duo made the sale. She got some down time, and sat with a new cat who had just arrived and was freaked out by every sight and sound. Rachel spoke calmly and quietly. Helped the little girl adjust. Thinking she was a bit like Bella in her hyper awareness, and thinking vaguely of what might come next. The girls being late middle aged, nobody living forever, that sort of thing. Honestly, the loss of a cat now, after all she had been through, seemed like it would be less devastating than ever before.

It occurred to her, sitting there quiet and calm, that maybe she had become inured to pain to the point she could finally get a real job working with animals. Her vet's office went through vet techs at an alarming rate; she recalled reading that those type of jobs were readily available. Even, she thought, for a person in her fifties. What would it be like to be new at a job after all these years, she mused. Hard no doubt, but also how nice would it be to approach a day at work as something new and challenging and full of unexpected little victories?

Toward the end of her shift, Rachel was standing out at the front, chatting with one of the new people. A man walked up, at once familiar and a stranger. His face broke into a wide smile, and she remembered him, the man from the vet's office. "Rachel," he said warmly. "I'm Luke. I think we met over cat crises?"

Rachel nodded, tongue tied for a moment that he knew her name until she realized she was wearing her name tag. "How is your cat?"

"Oh, she's fine, made a full recovery. I'm actually here because I was thinking of getting her a buddy. I'm not sure if she would like another cat, but it would be nice if she had someone to play with."

Rachel wasn't sure either, but she withheld judgement at least for now. She gave her standard spiel about the adoption process and guided him to the prospective adopter form. Most people liked to sit to fill these out, but he stayed there at the little counter, mulling over his answers out loud. He was quick, funny, just riffing off the questions. But Rachel busied herself scanning over the list of eligible cats, so she could recommend ones that might get along with a feisty calico. Now that she recognized him, she of course recalled the picture she had seen of his cat.

It was slow, so when he asked for suggestions, she didn't mind walking around with him to check out some possibilities. She glanced at his paperwork. He lived in the city, owned his place, and was a household of one. It was part of her job to make sure a person could have a cat at their residence, and that everyone in the household got to meet the animal.

But as they squeezed into a small room with an energetic tuxedo cat, Rachel felt extraordinarily aware of his closeness. The truth? She wondered if this man was single. And was he straight – she would bet money on it, and she felt her face heat slightly when she thought about why. There was something unmistakable in the way he held her glance, the witty way he spoke, meant to entertain her. It was almost boyish, and not without charm, even from a mature man.

The cat was bouncing around between them, cute and fortunately distracting. Focus, Rachel told herself. He's just a guy looking for a cat. She discussed strategies for introducing new cats, and spoke of her own cats, how they mostly seemed to mildly tolerate each other but joined forces when demanding food.

This kitty was a bit too much, Luke said, in the politest way possible. Rachel led him to the end of the hallway and unlocked another door. This cat was a bit older and much gentler. They sat on the floor next to each other, and the cat immediately climbed onto Rachel's lap.

"The apron means a lap," she said. It was an awkward dance sometimes, showing that the cats would make good companions but also urging them to flirt with the customer and not just cuddle with the regular volunteers.

He nodded and didn't seem bothered. He reached to gently pet the cat's head, allowing her to sniff his hand first, Rachel was pleased to see, in a respectful, cat sensitive way. She smiled at this, and at the cat. But Luke's eye met hers for a moment and she again felt that unexpected energy surge, as though the very air around them was charged.

It was normal to sit close like this, when showing a cat. But this was not normal. Not her churn of feelings, not the hyper awareness of his hand so close, nor the sudden inability to catch her breath.

You've been alone for over a year, she told herself sharply. And now out of the blue your hormones have started pumping?

As if reading her mind, Luke edged his hand away, and moved back, extending his legs and patting them for the cat. A little nudge from Rachel, and the cat stood, stretched, and stepped over.

He spoke a bit more about his cat, and the circumstances of his life when he got her – what was clearly an abridged version, that his ex-wife had survived cancer, caught early, treated aggressively, but then decided after taking a hard look at her life that she didn't want to be married, domesticated anymore. The cat had started out to fill the gaping hole she had left, but had morphed quickly into her own sweet separate being. It could be, he admitted, that he wanted two cats after the scare that he could lose the one.

Rachel, guardian of two cats, certainly understood.

The cat stepped off his lap, and he rose to his feet. Rachel did too. "I'm not sure if I'm quite ready," he said apologetically. "I hope I haven't wasted your time."

"Not at all," she answered. "It's a big commitment."

"I wonder," he began, and paused awkwardly.

Rachel could swear he was blushing and it made her feel awkward herself.

"I don't know how long you're here, but maybe we could go get coffee? I'd like to hear about your cats maybe while sitting on a chair."

Before she could think about it or self edit, she said sure. It was the end of her shift, there was a Peet's nearby. He just wanted to chat about cats, no harm. She went to get her stuff, and stopped in the bathroom. Washing her hands, brushing out her hair, she stared hard at herself in the mirror. Was this to be the first date she had had in 20 years, was that possible? Her eyes looked wide and frightened, but when she pictured him, Luke, cheerfully talking about his cat, she saw her own expression soften. He was a nice guy, friendly and funny, probably an age peer, possibly younger. Whatever this was, she felt ready. More than ready, somehow heightened, as if the rest of the day had been a dull prelude to what was to come.

They sat at a little outdoor table with coffees, sharing a pastry, talking, enjoying the breezy sunshine, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Where Rachel might have been nervous at the idea of an actual date, what was happening here filled her with warm energy, the opposite of anxiety. It was like catching up with an old friend.

It wasn't until they had exchanged phone numbers and Luke had said goodbye with a simple squeeze of her hand that Rachel felt herself leaving that good, in-the-moment place. She went to get her car and drive home, and had to force herself to watch the road. Otherwise her head, heart, gut, all of her was churning with wild emotions and impulses.

Back home, the girls greeted her as usual. Starry eyed as she might be feeling, they were oblivious. Pet us, give us treats. Rachel took the card Luke had handed her out of her pocket and studied it. He was a project manager for a tech company. Describing it, he laughing spoke of herding cats, and of ensuring that products were useful, meaningful and energy efficient. Words spoken to assure her he was thoughtful and progressive, a more substantial person than a recently arrived tech millionaire.

Well, it worked, she thought. The guy was smart, aware, and a cat person to boot. She had painted herself in as good a light as possible too, honestly. Emphasized the empathetic side of her HR work, and spoken lightly of her consideration of a late career change. Her love of animals. As for relationships, availability, she had referenced Glen only briefly, saying she was widowed and that it had been a shock. He had expressed normal surprised, polite sympathy.

At some point she would have to tell him the whole story. Rachel smiled again – in her mind she was already having the conversation. She had no doubt that they would talk further, probably soon. Talk and more. She felt herself flush, felt that rushed breathless chest tightening again. She could mourn for her younger, slimmer, firmer past self even as she imagined just how it would feel to have a warm body pressed to her not so young self. That smile, those hands.

How had a whole year passed with little sense of missing sensuality and sexuality, when now she was practically pulsating with it? She leaned toward Minx, who sat beside her with a quizzical expression, well attuned to human moods. Stroking her soft fur, they both enjoyed the sensation. But this, it was blindingly obvious now, would no longer be enough. "Sorry, baby," she whispered. "But you'll like him too."

Rachel stood, aware that she should busy herself before her imagination started spinning to wildly out of control. Left lounging on the couch, she could probably play out the story of their courtship and break up before she even heard from the guy. She needed exercise. A lot of it – she knew her mind would be churning tonight and it would be hard to sleep.

She had always been like that. She couldn't help but recall when she and Glen had first met, how she had been obsessed, a little crazed maybe, going over everything they had said in her mind, analyzing even the dumbest details. Playing out a hundred what ifs as though she could control what was essentially uncontrollable, the strange and unpredictable chemistry of human relationships.

And yet just now, changing into workout clothes and sitting on the floor to stretch, she felt more in her body than in her brain. They're not separate, she reminded herself, feeling the familiar push-pull through the muscles in her arms, thighs, calves.

A full workout later, Rachel hied herself into the kitchen, pleasantly tired. She would make a nice dinner, catch up on social media, read, maybe call a friend. She just might dig through her closet and find the right sort of clothes for a dinner out. People still did that, right? Maybe even take a little inventory of the house, try to see it as a stranger might. At the idea of her new friend gazing at her in this room, she felt that teenage swoony thing. My God, Rachel, you are 55 years old. She felt a dose of something like pride, too, mixed with her chagrin.

But one thing she would not do is sit waiting by the phone, worried, wondering. The way she used to with Glen. Luke would probably call. Or if not, someone else would. The possibility was out there.

What she really should do is get her resume together. Not just talk, really look into making a change. She had years still left, decades maybe, in her work life. Why not make them meaningful? Why not work with animals? She honestly could not imagine much happening on that sort of job that would be worse than that night back in New York or the bitter days just after.

Rachel felt a shiver down her spine. Just thinking about it, those hours in the hotel room and the garbled suspended time with all those intimate strangers, waiting for the grim news. There would always be a part of herself that was shell shocked, she knew. That kind of horror was not a thing you could ever get over. Terrorism, it was aptly named.

But now more than ever she needed new challenges, things to focus on outside of her particular pain. She needed an occupation closer to her heart, for one thing. Someone exciting and new in her life. It didn't even have to be him, Luke, she told herself wisely, though her mind went immediately to the memory of how he had demonstrated his cat's preferred type of petting by running a single finger down her wrist. It seemed like she could feel the physical sensation even now, and it was as devastatingly sensual as a 16 year old's first kiss.

You've got it bad, she told herself. Might as well try to enjoy the ride. It oddly occurred to her to wonder what would have happened in some alternative world where they hadn't taken the trip to New York. Suppose none of that had happened with Glen, but Luke had still wandered in to the SPCA on her shift. She was clearly drawn to him.

More to the point, things with Glen had been less than ideal for awhile too. Now that she was adjusted to life without him, she could be honest with herself and admit that. If she had talked him out of that trip, what else would he have pressed her about, what ultimatums might he have delivered? In the back of her mind maybe she had already known that Glen was seeking an exit. Maybe it was time to admit that even then, in his mind, he was already gone.

Later in the evening, her phone trilled. It was too late, really, for someone you hardly know to politely call, but Rachel felt her gut lurch and a giant smile sprawl across her face anyway.

However, it was Casey calling. Quarter to ten, that made more sense. She greeted him warmly though she had to wonder what was up; he rarely made a proactive call. His niceties were rushed and forced, and Rachel answered briefly, waiting for what, a plea for money, an ultimatum?

Casey, as always, provided the unexpected. "I hope this doesn't freak you out," he said, pausing in that breathy awkward way he'd always had. "Here's the thing. I'm having, like, suspicions that Dad might not have really died back there in the attack. And it's not just the money disappearing thing. Look, there was no body found, no DNA. Someone logged onto his computer and knew his password. He must have been getting ready, hiding his money."

"Casey, believe me, I understand how suspicious it all looked," Rachel said. She felt torn between admitting that she had felt the same way and trying to argue with him just to save him more pointless grief.

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," he continued.

Rachel felt a surge of maternal pride that he would even think to say this, regardless of whether it was true.

"I got the distinct feeling that Dad was getting, like, impatient with things, the way he got sometimes, you know? He would get restless, tired of things being all the same. He felt like a person needed to keep shaking things up, like you should figure out what you want and go for it, like he was always telling me, right?"

"He did say that, you're right." Before he could get started, she told him she knew about the time he had disappeared during his first marriage, pointing out, though, that he had returned.

"Uncle Nickel basically said I'm delusional, and not to bother you about this. So of course that made me think you're both holding out on me. You're not, right?" He gave an uncomfortable whinny of a laugh.

"I don't know more than you do," Rachel answered, careful with her words. Nick clearly figured they would egg each other on, but she knew that would be foolishness. Anyway, she honestly didn't feel sure one way or another. More to the point, it hardly mattered anymore. One way or another, Glen had departed.

"You're not suspicious at all? You would tell me if I'm right?"

"Of course if he somehow turned up, you would know, he would tell you himself," Rachel said. "But Casey, none of us can put our lives on hold. Whatever happened that night, we have to get on with things. Keep learning and growing, you know, like he said, setting goals and following them through."

She felt as if she was talking in cliches, but this seemed to satisfy him. She was relieved that he ended the call before she felt compelled to explain the ways she intended to move on. That was more a conversation she could have with Hannah. Later, she told herself, after she had, oh lord, gone on a date and then hooked up, as they called it now. She laughed at the warmth that came again to her cheeks.

Okay, they could chat about her new career, maybe. Another clear way she would push forward, a better and more certain way. Getting the training she needed and putting herself out there, applying for jobs – in this market, she was pretty likely to find something.

Rachel took a quick spin around the house, petted both cats, and got ready for bed. It had been a year and a month since that night. She tried to picture herself a year and a month from now. Coming home, physically tired but satisfied from a challenging day at an animal hospital, brushing fur off her sleeves and recalling her favorite patients, her pride in how she handled them and how she calmed their people. Making a simple meal for two, for herself and him, and why not just admit that nobody but Luke slotted into this mental picture. Maybe chatting with Hannah, egging her on over getting married and having babies with Ian. Maybe _he_ had kids, a grandkid on the way.

Oh, Rachel, getting so conventional after all that had happened. But was it so bad to wish for and appreciate these quiet nights at home? She wasn't suggesting never going out, she would be plenty active day to day. They could go out as a couple, meet each others' people, share favorite spots and investigate new activities. The city did have a lot to offer, even to someone who liked to stay home.

Ironic, she thought, if she ended up suddenly hankering to hit the latest hot spots and fly places spontaneously with someone else, someone pointedly not Glen. She imagined for a minute a facebook picture, she and Luke laughing and happy at some sunrise peak or bright new restaurant. Sneaky still alive Glen, a fake name friend with the kids, seeing the image, seeing his own kids liking it. Realizing as much as he was gone that Rachel was too, gone and launched onto her next chapter. Alive and well.

###

Like what you've read? Online reviews are appreciated!

Myanne's e-book The Ghost Family is available for $1.99 at

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36248 and her other e-books are available free

to download at:

Feed the World! https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/588161

Long Road to California https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/412198

Clarity https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/99806

Set it Off https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/327834

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