The elevator doors opened.
Dark clouds showed through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined her penthouse apartment. Sam heard car horns and cranes and the usual din of activity muffled behind the triple-paned glass.
She walked to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. She exchanged her goggles for her glasses. She put out food for Fosco. She filled the kettle. She prepared her tea infuser, mug and spoon, but before boiling the water, she went to the yoga mat in her living room.
Sam took off her glasses. She ran through her stretches too quickly. She was anxious to start her day. She tried to meditate, but she found herself unable to clear her mind. Fosco, finished with his breakfast, took advantage of the break in routine. He dolphined his head into her arm until she gave
in. Sam scratched underneath his chin, listening to his soothing purrs, and wondered as she often did whether she should adopt another cat.
Fosco nipped at her hand, indicating he’d had enough.
She watched him saunter off, then fall onto his side in front of the windows.
Sam put on her glasses. She returned to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Rain slanted outside the windows, saturating the lower end of Manhattan. She closed her eyes and listened to the tinny splatter of thousands of raindrops hitting the glass. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Fosco was staring out the windows, too. He was curved into a backward C, front legs stretched toward the glass, enjoying the heat coming up from the kitchen tiles.
They both watched the rain beat down until the kettle gave a low whistle.
Sam poured her mug of tea. She set the egg timer to three and a half minutes to allow the leaves to steep. She got yogurt from the fridge and mixed in granola with a spoon from the drawer. She took off her regular glasses and put on her reading glasses.
Sam turned on her phone.
There were several work emails, but she opened the one from Eldrin first. Ben’s birthday was next week. Sam had asked her assistant to come up with a clever message that would please her brother-in-law. Eldrin had suggested—
That’s the tribble with getting older!
Tribble in paradise!
Yesterday, all my tribbles seemed so far away …
Sam frowned. She didn’t know if tribble was inappropriate or too young for a forty-four-year-old woman to send to her sister’s husband.
She tapped open her phone’s browser to research the word. Charlie’s Facebook page was already on the screen. Sam visited her sister’s page twice a day because that was the most reliable way to find out what Charlie and Ben were up to—Looking at houses together in Atlanta. Interviewing for new jobs. Trying to find someone who knew whether or not it was advisable to relocate rabbits from the mountains to the city.
Instead of searching for tribble, Sam reloaded Charlie’s page. She shook her head at a new photo her sister had posted. Another stray had been found. The mutt was splotched like a bluetick hound, but with stubby dachshund legs. He was standing in the backyard, knee-deep in grass. One of Charlie’s friends, a person going by the dubious handle of Iona Trayler, had posted a snarky rejoinder about how Charlie’s husband needed to mow the grass.
Poor Ben. He had spent hours with Charlie excavating Rusty’s offices and the main floors of the HP, boxing and donating and listing on eBay various magazines, articles of clothing and, unbelievably, a prosthetic leg that had sold for sixteen dollars to a man in Canada.
They had never found the photograph of Gamma. There was the photo, the washed-out, sun-bleached picture that Rusty had let fade into nothing on his desk, but the photograph he had told Sam about, the one that he claimed captured the moment he and Gamma had fallen in love, was nowhere to be found. Not in the safe. Not in Rusty’s files. Not in the cabinets. Not anywhere in the downtown office or the HP.
Sam and Charlie had finally decided that the mythical image was likely one of Rusty’s tall tales, embellished for the sake of the listener, founded in very little fact.
Still, the loss of this phantom photo had opened up an ache inside of Sam. For years, she had scoured the academic and scientific world looking for the products of her mother’s brilliant mind. The thought had not occurred to her until three weeks ago how foolish she had been to have never once searched for her mother’s face.
Sam could look in a mirror and see the similarities. She could share memories with Charlie. But except for two dry academic papers, there was no proof that their mother had been a vital, vibrant human being.
The NASA postcard they had found in Rusty’s safe had given Sam an idea. The Smithsonian, in cooperation with the Johnson Space Center, maintained detailed records of every stage of the space race. Sam had put out feelers for a researcher or a historian to perform a proper investigation into whether or not the archives contained photographs of Gamma. She had already gotten several responses. There seemed to be a renaissance within the STEM fields to acknowledge the long-forgotten contributions of women and minorities to the scientific advancements of mankind.
The search would be finding a proverbial needle in the haystack, but Sam felt to the core of her being that a photograph of Gamma existed in NASA’s or even Fermilab’s records. For the first time in her life, she found herself believing that there was such a thing as fate. What had happened in the kitchen almost three decades ago was not the end of it. Sam knew that she was meant to see her mother’s face again. All that it would take was money and time, two things Sam had in abundant supply.
The egg timer buzzed.
Sam poured milk into her hot tea. She stared out the window, watching the rain pelt the glass. The sky had turned darker. The wind had picked up. Sam could feel the slight shift of the building as it rocked against the coming storm.
Oddly, Sam found herself wondering what the weather was like in Pikeville.
Rusty would have known. Apparently, he had kept up the weather project that he had started with Charlie. Ben had found piles of forms in the barn where for twenty-eight years Rusty had almost daily notated wind direction and speed, air pressure, temperature, humidity and precipitation. They had no idea why Rusty was still tracking the information. The weather station Ben had installed on the tower wirelessly reported the data back to NOAA. Maybe what it boiled down to was that Rusty had been a creature of habit. Sam had always thought that she was more like her mother, but at least in this one regard, she was certainly like her father.
The daily laps in the pool. The mug of tea. The yogurt and granola.
One of Sam’s many small regrets was that she had not preserved that last message Rusty had left on her birthday. The boisterous greeting. The weather update. The arcane bit of history. The discordant sign-off.
She missed his laughter most of all. He had always been impressed by his own cleverness.
Sam was so lost in thought that she did not hear her phone ring. The stuttered vibrations of the device shook her back to the present. She slid the bar across the screen. She put the phone to her ear.
“She signed the deal,” Charlie said by way of greeting. “I told her we could try to get it knocked down a few more years, but Lucy Alexander’s parents have been pushing pretty hard and the Wilsons just want it over with, so she’s at ten years, minimum security, eligible for monitored parole in five if she’s on good behavior, which of course she will be.”
Sam had to silently repeat Charlie’s words back in her head before she fully understood them. Her sister was talking about Kelly Wilson. Sam had hired a lawyer from Atlanta to help work out a plea deal. With Ken Coin’s abrupt resignation and the recording that Charlie had made of Judith Pinkman being considered tantamount to a deathbed confession, the state prosecutor had been eager to make the Kelly Wilson case go away.
Charlie said, “Coin would’ve never made that deal.”
“I bet I could’ve talked him into it.”
Charlie laughed appreciatively. “Are you ever going to tell me how you got him to quit?”
“It’s an interesting story,” Sam said, but did not tell the story. Charlie still refused to explain how her nose had been broken, so Sam still refused to explain how she had used Mason’s confession to intimidate Coin into stepping down.
Sam said, “Parole in five years is a good deal. Kelly will be in her early twenties when she gets out. Her child will be young enough for them to bond with each other.”
“It rankles,” Charlie said, and Sam knew she did not mean Kelly Wilson or her unborn child or even Ken Coin. She was talking about Mason Huckabee.
The FBI had done a full-court press against Mason for lying to a federal agent, tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, and accessory to a double murder after the fact. Despite his voluntary confession to the Pikeville police, Mason Huckabee had, unsurprisingly, hired a really g
ood, really expensive lawyer who’d pled him down to six years without a chance of parole. The Atlanta Federal Pen was not an easy place to serve time, but over the last few weeks, both Charlie and Sam had found themselves wondering if they should follow through on Sam’s threat to release Mason’s written confession.
Sam said what she always said: “It’s good for us to let this go, Charlie. Dad would not have wanted us to tie up our lives for the next five, ten, twenty years, hounding Mason Huckabee through the criminal justice system. We need to move on with our lives.”
“I know,” Charlie admitted, but with obvious reluctance. “It just pisses me off that he only got one more year than Kelly. I guess that’s a lesson about lying to a federal agent. But, you know, we could always go after him before his release. Who knows where we’ll be in six years? There’s no statute of limitations on—”
“Charlie.”
“All right,” she said. “Maybe he’ll get shivved in the shower or someone will put glass in his food.”
Sam let her sister talk.
“I’m not saying he should be murdered or anything, but, like, he loses a kidney or his stomach is shredded or, hey, better yet, he’s forced to shit into a bag for the rest of his life.” She took a quick pause for breath. “I mean, okay, the living conditions in prisons are deplorable and healthcare is a joke, and they feed them, basically, rat turds, but aren’t you kind of glad that he could get something as stupid as an infected tooth and die a miserable, painful death?”
Sam waited to make sure she was finished. “Once you and Ben are living in Atlanta, starting your new lives, it won’t matter as much. That’s your revenge. Enjoy your life. Appreciate what you have.”
“I know,” Charlie repeated.
“Be useful, Charlie. That’s what Mama wanted.”
“I know,” she said, sighing out the words for a third time. “Let’s change the subject. Since I’m catching you up on the Pikeville crime report, they had to let Rick Fahey go.”
Lucy Alexander’s grieving uncle. The man who had more than likely stabbed Rusty.