by David Ellis
Sammy, I decided, had paid plenty. Maybe the sentence he’d serve would be slightly out of proportion to the crime he’d committed, but all things considered, I didn’t think the world was terribly out of balance as a result.
I looked around the room. “You ready for tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “It feels good, y’know? I’m helping her. I get to do something positive. A guy like me, I don’t get to do a whole lot of good.”
“Call it a second chance, then.” I patted his arm. “I’ll be here when you wake up,” I promised. “And when Audrey wakes up.”
“Yeah.” He lit up at the mention of her name. “She don’t even know me, Koke. She’s got a whole family now.”
Such as it was. She’d only be seeing the man she thought of as her grandfather, Carlo, during visiting hours at Marymount Penitentiary. Carlo hadn’t been formally sentenced, but I was pretty sure his term would be tantamount to life for a seventy-three-year-old man. Her “mother,” Marisa Butcher, had received a complete pass from law enforcement, who’d never be able to prove that a mildly retarded woman was behind a plot to kidnap Audrey. In fact, I don’t believe she played any role in it whatsoever, and I’d found her to be a sweet, gentle woman. She’d been on quite the roller coaster recently, losing her father to prison but gaining a kidney donor for her desperate “daughter.”
Tommy, Audrey’s “uncle,” was a different story. Regardless of what he knew about Audrey twenty-eight years ago—he claimed total ignorance, naturally—it was pretty obvious that he was clued into the truth recently, given his role in Sammy’s murder trial. Prosecutors were taking a hard look at him for perjury from his testimony at Sammy’s hearing. Given his obvious self-interest in the outcome of Sammy’s case, it seemed like one whale of a coincidence that he happened by the Liberty Apartments on the night of Griffin Perlini’s murder and spotted a black man fleeing the scene, particularly when he clearly was not at Downey’s Pub drinking liquor that night, as he’d said. I figured the odds were good that he’d take a fall on that one. Which meant that Tommy’s brother, Jake, who had provided corroboration for Tommy, might get hit with an obstruction charge himself.
So all was not warm and fuzzy in the Butcher household. Audrey, if she awoke tomorrow with a new, healthy kidney, would find herself down a grandfather and possibly two uncles, and with a hell of a revelation about her entire family.
But she’d have Sammy.
“Audrey knows you,” I told him. “And she will know you.” I put on my coat and walked to the door.
“Hey.”
I turned back around.
“I’m not the only one who got a second chance.”
It was true. Not many people can say they dodged a bullet and mean it, literally. Guns misfire. It happens. Should I accept that as an element of some grand plan, an act of divine intervention? I couldn’t just turn off a lifetime of cynicism, nor could I accept that compromise—my life for Talia’s and Emily’s.
THE AIR OUTSIDE had grown chilly. I lifted my chin to the November sky, letting the wind curl inside my jacket. This is it, I thought. Life 2.0. As bizarre and sometimes terrifying as October had been, it was better than the four months preceding it. I’d been pulled out of my funk—against my will, but pulled out no less. I’d probably look back on that span of time and summarize it as grief bookended by twin traumas, though the second one had a pretty happy ending, all things considered.
But that meant that the worst of that grief—not the dull ache but the pulse-pounding, nightmare-inducing, breath-whisking horror—was over. And this was the truth: I was more frightened now than I’d ever been during the four months after my family died; more scared than I was at any time while Sammy, Pete, and even I faced life-threatening challenges. I knew how to mourn; that, in many ways, was easy. But this part—moving on, starting fresh, the beginning of the rest of my life—this, I didn’t know how to do. This didn’t make sense. Put a smile on my face, earn a living, have some laughs with Shauna and Pete, smell the occasional flower—and pretend that all of it means something?
Pretend. That, I realized, I could do. Hide behind a confident swagger, a screw-it-all attitude, the occasional sarcastic zinger. Hide behind that facade while I wait for the road to materialize before me.
Because I wanted to see that road. I wanted to go on. I wanted it to get better. I wanted to have a reason.
“I’ll try,” I said. “That’s all I can promise.” I pulled up my collar and started for my car.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I am indebted to others in the writing of this novel: Dan Col lins, for his patient explanations when it comes to matters regarding law enforcement; Dr. Ronald Wright, to whom I always turn for help on forensic sciences; Jim Jann, for brainstorming on plot and tweaks on characters and atmosphere.
Larry Kirshbaum and Susanna Einstein, my brilliant agents, helped mold the initial plot into something much more meaningful. You guys are the best. Rachel Holtzman—my eternal gratitude for all of your macro- and micro-comments that added so much depth to the novel; best of luck in future endeavors.
Michael Barson, Summer Smith—everyone at Putnam who tries to make me look good. Not a small chore. My thanks to you as always.
Thank you to Ivan Held, Neil Nyren, and Leslie Gelbman for your enthusiasm and support. I greatly value your trust and encouragement. I realize how lucky I am.
And to Susan, my best friend, the love of my life, my oxygen. You make it all worthwhile.
