Page 99 of The Night We Lost Him

“What doesn’t?”

“Anything happens to you, that’s it for me,” he said. “I fold up the tent.”

She smiled. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

He nodded, serious suddenly. His eyes sharp and hurting. “I have no desire to be without you.”

“My darling, this is turning into a pretty morbid conversation for a Tuesday night.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk about anything,” she said. “I’m hungry, and I would like to eat in peace before we have to get on the phone with Hawaii. I think we can’t avoid flying out there next week, but Sam’s doing some good work.”

He sighs. “Sure. I’m still not convinced it’s work he should be doing. Not that he’s open to that conversation.”

“Maybe time will tell that, one way or another…”

“Maybe.”

He reached for the beer and started to pour them each a little bit more. But she took ahold of his arm, looked into his eyes.

“I have no desire to be without you, either, for the record,” she said.

“Where’s this record?” he said.

“Pour me the rest of that beer, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

New York City Misses You

When we land in New York, we go straight to his apartment.

The ornate art greets us, the steely lobby, the familiar doorman. He is helping a resident with her dinner order. He waves us up as we walk by.

“Are you sure about doing it like this?” Sam asks.

“No,” I say.

But we are already getting on the elevator. We are already heading up.

Paul opens the door. He is in a sweatshirt and cargo pants. Bare feet. The day is behind him, he thinks. He is home, where he feels safe, a bourbon already in his hand.

“We know it was you, Paul.”

This is what I say before he says hello.

“You know that what was me?”

“We know it was you on the cliff that night,” I say.

Paul looks at me, and then back and forth between us. He looks genuinely surprised. Genuinely confused. And for a moment, for a grateful last moment, I get to think I’m wrong that it was him. That when I texted Meredith Cooper a photograph of Paul, she was also wrong that he was the jogger on the beach. That Uncle Joe was wrong that Paul owns a house in Malibu, up in Point Dume, where he spends at least half his time.

I get to believe, for that final moment, that all the signs pointing me here were signs that should have been pointed somewhere else. That I’m about to owe Paul a big apology. That I’m about to go home.

But then I notice it. His hand is shaking. The hand holding the bourbon. The hand with his wedding ring still on it.

“It’s up to you what you want to do here. We can go straight to the police and let them figure out the rest,” I say. “Or, I suggest, you let us in.”