by Dianne Dixon
Morgan quickly typed a text: So glad you’re home, Ben! xo
After the text was sent, Morgan leaned back in her chair, her feet propped on the coffee table, her thoughts going back to buttercup—to the rapist, the man who’d harmed Ali.
The white envelope, the one from Mr. Dupuis, was in the center of the coffee table. Beneath it was a second, slightly larger envelope. The issue of the rapist and the punishment Morgan planned to inflict were momentarily pushed aside.
Morgan let out a sigh. Happiness, with a touch of anxiety. She picked up the larger envelope and held it between her hands. She didn’t have to open it. She’d read its contents a dozen times.
After a few minutes of deliberation, Morgan made her decision. She put the larger envelope squarely on top of the slightly smaller one. And she was at peace. Lulled by the crackle of the fire, and the whisper of rain on the window.
Billie Holiday was singing about love and desire, her voice as warm as the taste of whiskey: In my solitude…you haunt me. The lyrics turned Morgan’s thoughts back to the monster she’d found, and all the women he violated.
And Morgan was thinking about how much she’d changed since she’d first laid eyes on him. Back then she’d been so completely lost. Out of habit, she crossed her arms. Ready to dig her fingernails into the crooks of her elbows, about to break down and cry.
But crossing her arms was as far as Morgan got.
She realized she didn’t need to feel sorry for herself, or cry. She wasn’t broken anymore. She was fine. Strong. Resolved. And she suddenly had the urge to call Sam—just to say hello, just to tell Sam that everything was good.
She pressed Sam’s number and heard a voice she’d never heard before. It was high and clear. A woman’s voice.
Morgan was confused. “Is Sam there?”
“Sam?” The woman sounded just as confused as Morgan. Then she said, “Are you the special friend? The phone friend?”
“Yes.” Morgan still wasn’t sure what was going on.
The woman’s voice went low, sorrow-filled. “I don’t know how to tell you this, other than to just say it. My brother passed away. He’d been ill for a long time.”
Morgan’s pain was as real as if she’d been hit by a gunshot. She was grief-stricken.
“My brother said finding you was one of the loveliest miracles he’d ever been given.”
Morgan tried to organize her thoughts, her emotions—she couldn’t. Grief was battling with confusion. She was refusing to accept that Sam was dead, and she wanted to know how he had come into her life. “How did your brother find me, really?”
“He was trying to text his new caregiver. When he entered the number in his phone, he mixed up the last two digits.”
“He had a caregiver?” Morgan was overcome with sadness. “I never thought of him as being old.”
“My brother was forty-three.” The woman was crying now. “He had very aggressive bone cancer. He hadn’t been able to leave the house in a long time.”
Morgan wiped away tears. “I don’t understand. When we first started talking, he told me how much he always looked forward to his afternoon swim.”
The woman chuckled, as if she was comforted by the memory. “My brother loved the ocean. Our family home is at the water’s edge. And I went swimming. For him. Every afternoon. While he watched from the window.”
Morgan wanted to stop, take time to grieve, but there were too many unanswered questions. “He told me he liked speed…race cars and parachute jumping. When did he do all that?”
“He spent most of his life doing it.” The woman was quiet for a second. “My brother was a Wall Street shark. He made enormous amounts of money, and in his free time he was a thrill chaser. He was also self-involved and shallow.”
“When did he change?” Morgan asked.
“After he got sick. That’s when he became a beautiful soul trapped in a broken body. He spent a lot of time reading…and learning. Thinking about who he was and who he wanted to be in the time he had left. He said that, at some point, he started to pray, and his prayer was ‘Use me.’ He wanted to be of service. He believed that, right up until the end, people can grow and change…can keep on giving to each other, no matter what life throws at them. He said his relationship with you was the proof of that.”
“But he did all the giving. I didn’t give him anything in return.” Morgan’s face was wet with tears.
“You gave him the best gift in the world,” the woman said. “You gave him someone to take care of, and love.”
The tears were crowding in, making it difficult for Morgan to speak.
“What was his name?”
“It was—”
“Wait.”
Too much had changed, too fast.
“Don’t tell me. I need him to stay the way he was. I need him to stay Sam.”
Before the woman could reply, Morgan ended the call.
She gathered Ralph into her arms, rested her head on his warm fur, and cried like she’d never be able to stop. The dearest friend she’d ever had was dead.
It took a very long time for Morgan to wipe away her tears—and tell Ralph, “I don’t have to cry. Sam isn’t gone.”
Morgan had realized that as long as she lived, wherever she went, Sam’s quiet voice would be there. Guiding her toward what was strong and good.
And the possibilities were infinite.
Morgan smiled as she dimmed the lights and enjoyed the comfort of her favorite chair. Ralph climbed in and snuggled next to her, his heart beating in rhythm with the rain on the windows.
Drifting off to sleep, Morgan saw the image of the boning knife she’d taken out of Ali’s kitchen earlier in the evening, just before she kissed Ali good-bye. She knew exactly how she would get justice for Ali. The only thing still to be decided was when.
As sleep finally overtook her, Morgan was utterly relaxed—her hands loosely folded on her belly.
Ali
“I have a question.” The young waitress was weaving through the crowd, making her way toward Ali. “When do you want the appetizers served?”
“You can go ahead and start.” Ali’s response was subdued.
Most of the people Ali loved were gathered in her restaurant. Peter Sebelius’s surprise birthday party had started, and Ali was having trouble getting into the spirit of the evening. She was still unsettled by the bizarre discovery of the brown suitcase—and by the strange quality of Morgan’s good-bye kiss last night. Ali had the feeling Morgan was hiding something from her.
But now, as Ali watched Morgan move through the glitter and sparkle of the party, she wondered if she’d simply imagined that Morgan was keeping secrets. Morgan seemed relaxed and self-confident. Getting compliments and congratulations from almost everyone she passed.
The transformation of the restaurant’s dining area into the setting for Peter’s celebration had been spectacular, and it was Morgan who had accomplished it.
That morning, Ali had been frantic when she was on the phone with Morgan. “The team I hired to do the decorations for Peter Sebelius’s party just called. They’re stranded at the Denver airport. The party starts in less than eight hours, and there’s no time to book another decorating company.”
Ali was expecting something like “Wow. That’s awful. What’re you going to do?”
Instead, she heard Morgan say, “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I’ll take care of it. Today’s Saturday. I don’t have to be at work. That gives me the whole day to handle what needs to get done.”
Bursting with inspiration and enthusiasm, Morgan had swept into JOY and created a setting more incredible than Ali could have ever imagined.
With Ali as her assistant, Morgan worked for seven straight hours. She filled the restaurant’s high, curved ceiling with a sea of matte-black balloons, all of them trailing constellations of
shimmering streamers. The effect was breathtaking. Then Morgan covered the tables with snow-white tablecloths and graced each one with a golden bowl containing a single cream-colored camellia. Beside each bowl was a crystal candlestick holding a slim, gold-hued candle. Simple and elegantly beautiful. After that, she laid out the place settings—all of them similar, none of them identical—imaginative combinations of shiny black dinner plates, gleaming silver flatware, and oversize linen napkins patterned in swirls of black and cream.
Now Morgan had her arm around Ali’s waist, the two of them taking in the beauty of Morgan’s work. “When did you learn how to do stuff like this?” Ali asked.
“I think I’ve always known. But I didn’t realize it…not until a friend of mine told me, ‘Morgan, you’re a curator at an art museum. You understand color and form and proportion. You can use what you know to work magic.’”
“Your friend was right.” Ali looked around the room, awestruck.
Morgan’s grin was bashful. “This is only the second time I’ve ever done it in a major way. The first time was when you weren’t with me. When I was all alone. When I decorated my house and made it really pretty.” Morgan took a deep breath. “Being away from you put me at the bottom of the pit…and I came out a completely different person.”
There was triumph in Morgan’s shy smile.
Ali was blinking back tears.
Before the tears could fall, Morgan was wiping them away.
• • •
The party was in full swing. Everyone was having a fabulous time. Waiters wearing red ties and black silk shirts served French champagne and broiled Maine lobsters, and tiny portions of lemon sherbet that were as light and cold as snowflakes. In the center of the room, while a man at the piano pounded out a rafter-shaking rendition of “Mustang Sally,” more and more dancers were crowding the floor.
The happiness in the room was contagious. And it briefly dimmed Ali’s nagging worry about the suitcase, allowed her to enjoy herself. She blew a kiss to Sofie, who was at a nearby table. Perched on Matt’s lap. Pretty as a picture. In a little black-velvet dress and white leggings.
Morgan was a few feet away, talking to Quinn Sebelius. Ali heard Quinn tell Morgan, “I’ve been wanting all night to let you know how pretty you look.” But Morgan’s thank-you was drowned out by a loud flourish coming from the piano. And Quinn rushed off, saying, “Oops, that’s my cue!”
Quinn took her place beside the piano, nervously. Shooting Ali an anxious glance. Ali gave her a thumbs-up, and Quinn, flushed and excited, picked up the microphone. “Thank you, everybody, for coming to celebrate my wonderful husband’s thirty-fifth birthday.” She waved toward the table where Peter was. “And most of all, thank you, sweetheart, for being mine. I love you like crazy!”
Peter’s smile was pure adoration.
“Okay. Enough sappy stuff.” Quinn smiled. “We’ve had a great dinner and great music. And now, before we get to the truly amazing birthday cake Ali whipped up, let’s have some really great laughs.” The lights dimmed and Quinn announced, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you a video tribute to the life and times of Dr. Peter Sebelius. We’ll begin with the early years.” A photo of a bald-headed baby splashing in an inflatable wading pool appeared on an overhead monitor.
The room erupted in laughter, and Ali crossed to the table where Matt and Sofie were. She settled into an empty chair beside Matt, telling him, “We’re shorthanded in the kitchen. I should help with the setup for the cake and coffee.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
“Me, too. Me, too.” Sofie was already scrambling off Matt’s lap.
As Ali scooped Sofie into a hug, Morgan appeared at Ali’s side. “Do you want me to take her home now? It’s getting late.”
Sofie gave Morgan an adamant shake of her head—then looked up at Ali with a little pixie smile. “I want to sing ‘Happy Birthday, Dr. Peter,’ ’cause he’s nice.”
Ali was a mother completely in love with her child. She kissed the tip of Sofie’s nose and told her, “I guess we can postpone bedtime until after we cut the cake. Because birthday cake is one of Sofie Easton’s favorite things, isn’t it?”
Sofie giggled. And happily went into Morgan’s open arms.
Ali headed for the kitchen, leaving Sofie snuggled in Morgan’s embrace, fascinated by the images of Peter Sebelius that were flashing across the monitor’s screen.
“He’s nice,” Sofie whispered to Morgan.
“Yes,” Morgan agreed. “He’s very nice.”
For that brief span of time, all was right with Ali’s world.
Six hundred ninety-three miles from JOY,
under a star-filled sky.
Agony.
Two nights since the brown rabbit darted out of the shadows, and the tip of the man’s ski snagged on the tree root, and he was sent flying into the air.
Two nights since he’d landed with his head at a grisly angle, smashed against the snow-covered base of the tree.
Two nights of unwanted images and sense memories flashing through his mind. Shuffling and reshuffling with lightning speed… The smell of night-blooming jasmine and a shred of amber-colored silk… White cotton and a woman’s eyes, green, and so very wide open… Droplets of crimson-red blood, in another place and time, falling onto a blanket of snow, and the letter L… Hot sand, the flicking of a lizard’s tail against a bare ankle, and a curl of lace the color of a blueberry.
Two nights of lying freezing and paralyzed—straining to hear footsteps, praying for rescue.
Ali
Ali caught only a few glimpses of Quinn’s video tribute to Peter. The presentation of the birthday cake and serving after-dinner drinks had kept Ali moving nonstop between the dining area and the kitchen.
Now, as the party was winding down, she noticed that Morgan was still there, with Sofie in her lap. “You’ve been at it since dawn,” Ali said. “You must be exhausted.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine.” Morgan seemed surprisingly wide awake and energized. “Actually, I have something else to do as soon as the party’s over.”
“Then go. I’m serious. People are starting to take off. This celebration is pretty much done. Put Sofie to bed in her old nursery in the kitchen. She can sleep there till Matt and I are ready to leave.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I really do need to get going.” Morgan seemed as if she wanted to say something more. Then she brushed a kiss across Ali’s cheek and disappeared, carrying Sofie into the kitchen.
When Morgan’s lips had touched Ali’s skin, the kiss was rushed, nervous, like Morgan was keeping secrets. Ali wanted to follow Morgan into the kitchen, to talk about it. But she couldn’t get away. Matt, Peter, and Quinn were the only people left in the dining room, and Quinn had looped her arm through Ali’s—saying, “Come with me. I want you to see Peter’s video tribute from beginning to end. And I won’t take no for an answer.”
• • •
The picture of Peter as a baby, in the wading pool, flashed onto the screen, and all four of them—Ali, Matt, Quinn, and Peter—leaned back in their chairs, pleasantly tired. They were gathered around a small table. Several bottles of champagne were on a nearby bar cart. Matt had opened one of the bottles to share with Ali and Quinn. Peter poured himself a glass of mineral water.
While the video tribute unfolded, one of black balloons crowding the ceiling suddenly popped, with a small bang. It distracted Ali for a minute. When she turned back toward the table, she saw Matt struggling to keep his eyes open.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
“Yeah. I guess it’s just being home from Australia for less than forty-eight hours and not getting very much sleep. It’s probably jet lag.”
Ali leaned toward Matt, rubbed the back of his neck, and then looked up at the screen.
What she saw sent a shock wave through her.
A raucous Christmas party crowded with nurses and doctors, wearing Santa hats. A large banner proclaiming Docs Rock! An Asian girl in scrubs at the side of a makeshift stage, shouting, “Pay attention to this friggin’ talent show and vote for the winner by stuffing your cash into one of those slot-topped boxes. We’re raising money for a toy drive, people!” Five performers were lined up on the stage. A trio of men blowing bubbles the size of beach balls. A pretty woman doing a belly dance. And a tall, muscular man strumming a guitar.
The man was clowning his way through a ridiculous cowboy song. His shirt was satin, the pockets and cuffs edged in black. His belt buckle was big, shaped like a horseshoe. And his ostrich-skin boots were eggplant purple.
Ali was fighting not to pass out. Swaying in her chair. The chair rocking and tipping. She was inches from hitting the ground.
Matt somehow managed to grab her and break her fall.
Peter Sebelius reached in to help.
Ali screamed. Clawing at him like a wild animal.
Quinn shrieked.
Ali saw Matt catch sight of the image on the video screen—the man in the satin shirt and eggplant boots.
The man was Peter Sebelius.
Matt roared and drove his fist into Peter.
Peter slammed into the wrought-iron base of a nearby table.
Quinn shrieked again, louder.
And in this place called JOY, Ali was drowning in a sea of fear and violence.
Six hundred ninety-three miles from JOY,
under a star-filled sky.
The prelude to death.
The man, lying in the snow, with his head smashed against the trunk of the tree.
Unbroken silence. No sound of a footstep, or a helicopter.
The images in his mind shifting, changing. Whirling like a living hologram.
He’s hurrying through a shadow-filled garage. He needs to get back to the street, where his car is. The taste of cheap hospital party booze is sour in his mouth, like day-old piss. He’s popping another breath mint. He’s in less of a fury than he was when he got here… He’s less drunk. Now he’s thinking how stupidly conspicuous his clothing is. It might make somebody take notice when he comes out of the garage.
