When I stood to go, Mom said she’d walk me to the door. After I kissed my father goodbye, we started through the house.

“I am so glad you’re okay, Ryan. I’m sorry,” she said.

Since apologies are rare in our family, I knew she really must be. “Thanks.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it, that I just assumed you were fine? Maybe it’s because you’ve come through so much already. You’ve proved how strong you are, over and over, and I guess I take that for granted.”

“That’s better than the alternative. You could have squirreled me away in the attic to keep me safe.”

“I just believed you were strong and hoped for the best. You never proved me wrong.”

We were at the door. I hugged her quickly. And then, after that brief wave of sentiment, I got back down to business. “I think all this uproar is aging me. What do you think?”

She smiled just a little. “You look good to me.”

“No plastic surgery to get rid of worry lines?”

She reached up and smoothed my forehead. “Not yet.”

“I guess Wendy beat me to it.”

“Wendy?”

“She must have had a little tuck here and there?”

“Why would she need to? She’s perfect the way she is. Maybe she will when she’s a little older.”

I nodded. “I guess I’ll have to wait.”

As always, I was glad to be a journalist. I had learned so many ways to get information. I left with my answers, and with something more. The way my parents viewed me or claimed to was going to be interesting to contemplate.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I expected to sleep badly that night. My mother may think I’m strong, but I still have more than my share of nightmares. After being attacked at Wendy’s front doorstep, I knew what was coming. Any shock, any scare plunges me back to my internship at the Seabank Free Press. As soon as I drift reluctantly to sleep, distorted memories of the worst moments of my life come out to play.

Thanks to my parents’ intervention, I got help for my nightmares almost immediately after the night that triggered them, including something called imagery rehearsal therapy to learn how to design new endings. But despite prompting, I had refused medication. Too many friends had become addicted to opioids, and a girl I’d known in graduate school had progressed to heroin, which had been cheaper and more easily available. I’d been afraid if I felt better on medication, I would never quit.

Tonight, if I had been able to stay awake, I would have. Instead, after Holly and Noelle were finally asleep, I raided Wendy’s shelf of liquor and made a mug of warm milk with a shot of whiskey. Then I made my way upstairs. I took out a pen and pad and curled up against pillows. Breathing deeply, I wrote down everything that had happened that morning, in as much detail as I could remember. Then I moved back to earlier memories. When my heart started pounding harder, I focused on my breathing and waited until both had slowed before I continued.