“After he died, there wasn’t a case anymore,” I finish. Some lieutenant colonel at the Pentagon wanted to get a staff position at the White House or some fucking thing like that, and somehow that weasel calculated that Dad’s story would hurt his career, so he shitcanned it. Politics.

“This is going to sound hollow and cliché,” the voice says, “but I’m sorry for your loss.”

I appreciate the gesture but I don’t feel like acknowledging it. “What happened to the money?”

“What money?” the voice says. “Don’t call this number again, Ms. Faulkner.” He disconnects.

I sit there, watching the 737 roll up to a jet bridge at the terminal, until an outer door opens and Tyler sticks his head in to tell me the plane’s ready.

ALONE IN THE back of the Learjet this time without Gus to talk to, I charge my phone and think. Not about Finn or the money so much, although I do think about both. I spend a bit more time thinking about Mom and Dad. They were in their thirties when they died, not even middle-aged yet. What would their lives have been like if they’d lived? In some sunshine-drenched corner of my mind, Dad would have gone to counseling to deal with his PTSD, and Mom would have continued as a teacher, loved by her students. We would have moved to a bigger house, maybe with a pool or a flat-screen TV. Then I could have told Fiona Gorchinsky to suck it because we were going to hang out at my house from now on. And Dad and I could have planted a huge garden, terraced and landscaped, with a fountain and a stream and all sorts of flowers.

It’s a nice dream that lasts until Sean calls back from the cockpit that we’re beginning our initial descent into Atlanta.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There is something about riding a motorcycle that just clears my head, like a great wind rushing through my brain and emptying it of thought. That doesn’t happen often. I’ve tried meditation, yoga, qigong, long-distance running, you name it. But I think the rush of forward movement, the sense of openness and exposure when I ride, all combine to center me, to help me escape my own head, at least for a moment.

By the time I turn onto Ethan’s street, it’s after four thirty and I could use another half hour on my bike, but I need to call Finn soon. Time is too short all around. I pull into Ethan’s driveway and see the Frankenstein parked just behind Ethan’s Corolla. The gang’s all here. I walk in through the kitchen door, expecting Wilson to scamper across the room and leap on my legs.