“This is about Mom,” Jake said. “That’s why all those people are here.”
“Sit with me, son.”
Jake got up on the bed with Greg and he put his arm around him.
“I have something very sad to tell you.”
Greg gave Jake a moment to brace himself before he continued.
“Mom won’t be coming home.”
Jake blinked, absorbing the words.
“Ever?”
Greg’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“No, son. Not ever.”
“But why? Is she mad at us?”
“No.” Greg brushed Jake’s hair. “Mom was in a bad accident, she was hurt bad, so bad that she—”
Greg couldn’t say it. He cleared his throat and tried again.
“That she—”
He struggled until Jake said: “That she what, Dad?”
“That she died, son. Mom died.”
Jake stared at him, eyes probing his.
“But how? What happened? She didn’t have her car?”
“Jake, it’s—there was an accident in Cleveland—”
“Cleveland?”
“Yes, the police will tell us more when they find out.”
After listening to all that his father had told him, Jake had not shed a tear while processing it, as if it were a math problem that didn’t add up. Jake shook his head.
“Everybody’s lying, Dad. Just like when the kids at school say things. It’s not true. Mom’s not dead.”
“It is true, son. I know it’s hard to understand, but it’s true.”
“No, Dad. It can’t be true. It can’t!”
“Son.”
“It can’t be true because I wished for Mom to come home. I wished on her angel chime.”
“That’s where Mom is now, son, with the angels.”
“No, no.” Jake’s voice grew small, weak. “She’s supposed to come home to us, Dad. God wouldn’t do this. God wouldn’t let Mom die.”
Jake’s body spasmed against Greg’s as he sobbed, the two of them holding each other in a whirlwind of agony, spiraling with images of a house fire thirty years ago, to Sister Mary’s office, to Jenn and Greg’s bedroom. Jake and Greg stayed that way for a long time until Jake asked Greg if they could start Jenn’s chime.
Greg brought it into the bedroom, set it on the night table, started it, and shut off the lights. They watched the angel carousel spin with the gentle, calming tinkling, with Jake making his wish.
* * *
Kozak and the others had left.
Kat and Vince stayed with them that night but respecting Greg’s insistence on being alone with Jake.
Downstairs, the news of Jenn’s death brought calls and messages from media, friends, and neighbors. Kat told reporters that the family was devastated, thanked all of the volunteers, but had nothing more to say. She and Vince accepted condolences from friends and neighbors, thanking them for all of their support, explaining that they’d let them know about plans for Jenn’s funeral service.
Upstairs, Greg and Jake passed the evening on the bed watching family videos on Greg’s tablet. Jake’s face was etched with sadness as birthdays, Christmases, and vacations rolled on the screen. The pictures on the tablet resurrected other images of their life. They played in Greg’s memory where he saw Jenn in high school, where he fell in love with her, then getting married, Jake’s birth, this house—“Our forever home”—in Trailside Grove. Where All Your Dreams Come True.
But this is not our dream.
Now here was a video of a vacation they took together in Florida. Here was Jenn walking in the sun on the beach. Greg was walking with her, recording her. Jake was in the distance behind them, building a sandcastle.
Jenn fills the frame, radiant and shapely in her bathing suit, beautiful, glowing in the sun, saying: “Come, Greg. Stop recording. Walk with me.”
This is not how our story’s supposed to end.
Jenn’s holding out her hand to him but he keeps recording.
“Walk with me, Greg.”
You were supposed to come back. I always believed you would come back to me. I needed you to come back to me.
“All right.” Jenn smiles to the camera, withdrawing her hand in mock disappointment, giving him a playful dismissive wave.
Greg is suddenly chilled because he can’t remember his last moment with Jenn, the last thing he said to her.
“That’s it, buddy,” Jenn says, walking a little faster ahead on the beach.
You can’t leave me like this without me telling you how much I love you.
“So long,” Jenn says, turning, smiling with a final wave. “Bye.”
Fifty-Five
Cleveland, Ohio
From a hill overlooking the freeway, Greg could see the blotch of blackened asphalt.
It was the day after Kozak had told him Jenn had been killed on that very spot.
Greg and Kat made the three-hour drive to Cleveland, to this grassy ridge. He needed to see the site of Jenn’s death. Nothing yet honored the location, nothing signifying Jennifer Griffin’s life had ended here but a scorched stain stretching across several lanes.
Seeing cars and trucks rushing over it was an indignity.
Greg adjusted his grip on the bouquet of a dozen red roses, Jenn’s favorite. But he got plastic ones, so they would last longer. He gestured to Kat. They got into her Jeep, made their way to an on-ramp and entered the freeway, driving to the location. Kat activated her Jeep’s emergency lights, stopping on the narrow shoulder.
Greg got out.
Horns blared from traffic in the rush whipping past within feet of Greg while he zip-tied the flowers to a signpost near the spot. He said a prayer for Jenn before returning to the Jeep.
They headed for University Circle, guided by Kat’s GPS.
“How did she get from a book club meeting in Ripplewood to that spot in this city?” Greg asked. “Why was she on the freeway?”
Kat nodded sympathetically.
These were the questions Greg had been asking all morning. During the drive from Buffalo, he’d put them to Kozak in a phone call. Then he put them to an investigator with the Ohio State Police, then a deputy with Cuyahoga County, then an FBI agent because Greg was told all agencies were involved in the investigation.