One by One

by Sarah Cain

  Alex shuddered. “You know this because?”

  “I’ve seen her.” Danny looked away.

  Jenna had finally gotten her wish. She had slimmed down, but her white flesh sagged against her bones, making her look drawn and haggard. Poor Jenna Jeffords would never be a swan. “I’m still wearing my Claddagh ring,” she’d said, and he’d shuddered, even as he’d mouthed some sort of banality. She’d drift in and out of reality as if her brain had some kind of broken switch. When he sat in the small room with Jenna, Danny struggled to breathe. It was only when he was driving home that he could pity the poor soul lying in the hospital bed. What a coward he was.

  “Would she talk to me?” Alex asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. She asked for me. She doesn’t get much company.”

  Alex squeezed his arm. “It’s not your fault. Try to remember that.”

  Isn’t it? Danny didn’t know. Had he somehow led Jenna on? Made her believe he cared about her? He hadn’t wanted to be like his father, like his brother Junior. He’d tried to be kind, but he’d never been a saint. Christ, he’d peddled dope. What did that make him? You couldn’t go back because you always saw the past through the prism of your present. You were never that person you imagined you were.

  Alex watched with sympathetic eyes. He wasn’t any kind of hero, and she didn’t seem to mind. “In any case,” he said, “you have a huge story about political corruption, land development, and profiteering. And that’s just the beginning. Play it right and you might get a Pulitzer nod.”

  “What do you mean I have a story?”

  Danny leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He knew it was going to be hard to explain. He wasn’t quite sure he understood himself. “I watched you when you were grilling my sister, digging into the background, just going through my notes—you’ve got the fire, Alex. You want to slay the dragons. Right the wrongs. And that’s a wonderful thing. You need that.” He sat up and shrugged.

  Alex wrapped her arms around her chest. “But you don’t.”

  He shook his head. “I’m tired.”

  “So you’re just going to walk away?”

  “I talked to Tim Gluckman, your managing editor. I’m going to do a piece for the magazine about Jenna and high school bullying. I know it’s been done to death, but I feel like I owe her.”

  “You do realize she and her son tried to kill you.”

  He nodded and watched her try to puzzle it out. “I know. But somebody should still tell her story. She was a sad case.”

  “And then what? You head off into the sunset?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “What does that even mean?” Alex’s eyes narrowed in anger, and Danny knew anything he said would be used against him. He didn’t want to have to explain that he needed to walk away before he hurt her, too.

  “It’s time for me to move on.”

  “You trying to be noble, Ryan? Or maybe you just don’t like black women?”

  “Jesus Christ, Alex. You’re still married, and every woman I’ve loved I’ve managed to get killed.”

  “So are you telling me you love me?”

  “I’m telling you I care about you more than I should.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means you’re married, and I—”

  “Don’t you dare tell me you’re still in love with your wife.”

  He almost smiled at the ferocity in her eyes. How could he begin to tell her about Kate, who still claimed a small but very real corner of his heart? Maybe he needed to admit he loved a ghost, but she was gone. Life kept rolling forward, and the woman glaring across the table at him was vibrant and real. He reached out to take her hand. They stood on equal ground, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

  “I’m not still in love with Beth,” he said.

  “So that leaves us?”

  “Moving forward?”

  “Together?”

  “You have some loose ends to tie up, don’t you think?”

  Alex sighed. “Loose ends are a bitch.”

  “Can we work out those loose ends?”

  “Oh, baby.” She leaned close enough that her lips were a breath away from his. “We can work out anything.”

  66

  By late August, Alex had gathered a huge amount of background for the exposé on Cromoca. It had been tentatively set to break the second week in September, but the deadline kept getting pushed back.

  “It’s a cesspool,” she’d told Danny when they last met for dinner. She was glowing.

  She and Sam hadn’t officially separated, though he had leased an apartment in West Philly near the hospital, and she still lived out in Devon. She was working almost round the clock to pull the article together, but she and Danny had head-banging sessions at least four times a week.

  He looked forward to them.

  Danny stood on the Penn Charter soccer field on a warm afternoon watching Kelly practice for preseason. She’d had a growth spurt and now stood at a rangy five eight, her long dark hair pulled back into a tight braid as she ran sprints.

  “She’s fast,” Danny said to Kevin.

  Since June, Kevin had lost nearly fifty pounds and was working on losing another fifty. His color was better, and he could jog a quarter mile without running out of breath. He barely complained when Jean fed him his broiled chicken and broccoli or salmon and asparagus, though he looked ready to cry at the tiny vanilla birthday cupcake she served him a few weeks ago.

  Small steps.

  “Kelly’s a good kid. Helps her mom. It’s been tough,” Kevin said. He ran a hand against his face. “What a thing. Right? Heart attack. I was too dumb to know what was happening.”

  “Lots of people don’t know. You had a lot on your mind. You’ve got a great scar,” Danny said.

  Kevin grunted, but Danny watched him relax slightly, walking to the bleachers to sit. Danny sat beside him. In the next field, some younger boys were practicing, and he turned to watch. Conor would have been eight now, younger than these boys, but no less enthusiastic. Just getting ready to start third grade. Danny pushed his fist against his chest. Would the pain ever go away? Maybe when his heart stopped beating.

  “Oh, here, this came for you. It was mailed to our house. Guess whoever sent it didn’t have your new address.”

  Kevin handed Danny a beige envelope. The kind people used to send before they stopped writing letters. Danny opened the envelope and pulled out a photograph and a single sheet of paper with a note was scrawled on it:

  Here I am enjoying my new life. As you can see, everything is fine. Hope to meet again someday soon. All the best.

  The photograph was of John Novell, the detective who’d saved his life eighteen months ago. He stood in front of an expanse of glass in a pair of khaki shorts and a white polo shirt, a Marlins baseball cap on his head and a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes.

  Danny squinted at the picture. Reflected in the glass was the woman taking the photograph. She was small and wore a flowing white dress and a sun hat. He would have sworn she was Linda Cohen, who had, up until last year, owned the Sentinel. Seated behind them on a low stone wall was a light-haired woman holding a small child. She rested her chin on the child’s head, and Danny was absolutely positive the woman was Kate Reid. The woman he had loved. The woman he had believed was dead.

  Kevin looked at him and frowned. “What the hell is the matter?”

  Danny handed him the photograph.

  “Mother of God,” Kevin said. “Get rid of this.”

  “But you know what this means.”

  He looked at the envelope. The return address was Los Angeles. It was postmarked June.

  “It means nothing,” Kevin said. “It’s been sitting in my junk pile for well over a month. Let it go.”

  “But Kate’s alive. She’s alive!”

  Kevin caught him by the arms and gave him a little shake. “Listen to me. It’s taken you damn near three years—thre
e years!—to get your life back together. Don’t throw it away because you think you see something in a photograph. For Christ’s sake, Danny.”

  “She’s holding a child. It could be mine.”

  “It could be the goddamn postman’s. It might not even be Kate. Look, she’s blonde. Let it go. Let her go. Don’t be an idiot. For once in your life, throw that goddamn thing away and move on.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You’ve spent too much time looking back. Move on.”

  Danny placed the note and photograph back into the envelope. On the field, the girls were starting to go through their drills, and he watched Kelly raise her fist in the air and shout. She glanced around and waved at the bleachers. Kevin waved back.

  Danny’s heart beat against his throat. Alex was expecting him for dinner, where they were going to review her notes. He had an article to finish, and his life was threatening to come apart. Again.

  A lifetime ago, Kate had given him a deep-sworn vow. She’d walked away, and he believed he’d closed the door between them. But he’d never locked it.

  The old familiar faces were waiting. Should he stay or go?

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I am very grateful to so many people for their support.

  First and always, thank you to my wonderful husband, Howard, who was not only supportive throughout this whole adventure but also a source of fascinating information about the scrap industry and, of course, the ins and outs of local government. Thank you as well to my three terrific children, Alexandra, Michael, and Mary, who both inspire me and make me a proud mama in every way, every day. I am so lucky to have such an amazing family whom I adore beyond reason.

  Thank you to my wonderful writing women: the fantastic and fabulous Julie Duffy (of Story-A-Day), the multitalented and multifaceted Lorinda Lende, and my darling supernova of a writer (and friend) Maria Hazen-Lewis (who has patiently held my hand and listened to my moaning and groaning for far too long). They were my critiquers, coaches, and all-around writing buddies. I would never have gotten through the manuscript without these women by my side. They are amazing writers, generous with their time, friendship, and guidance. I love you all, and I believe it’s time to start planning field trips (with margaritas)!

  Thank you to my dear Michelle Massey, who has been a cheerleader and supportive beyond reason. I love you. You are the best. Never doubt it.

  Thank you to Thea Kotroba and the staff of the recently closed Chester County Book Company. This lovely store was a warm and welcoming place to discover books and a grand supporter of local authors. It will be sorely missed.

  Thank you to the Main Line Writers, who are a warm and welcoming group that, under the leadership of Gary Zenker, provides a home for aspiring and published writers. It is a lovely group of people who are generous, talented, and kind.

  Thank you always to my agent, Renée C. Fountain, who got me started and who has always been there for me.

  Thank you to Matt Martz and the crew at Crooked Lane Books for their help and editorial assistance in getting the story right, with a particular shout-out to Heather Boak and Sarah Poppe for their time and assistance and to amazing cover designers Andy Ruggirello, who worked on The 8th Circle, and Melanie Sun, who designed One by One.

  I’d also like to thank Dana Kaye and Julia Borcherts for their hard work publicizing the book. You are the dynamic duo.

  Finally, thank you to those who came to readings, book signings, and other events and who took the time to comment on the novel. I appreciated every one of your thoughts and our discussions. Follow me at http://sarahcainauthor.com or on Facebook or Twitter.