“That’s not the way you wanted to take care of this,” she says when I am finished.

“I know, but perhaps it was unrealistic for me to think I could disappear completely from San Francisco and never be missed. At least now I have gone on record as saying my husband is missing.”

She nods once and we are quiet for a while. “Kat asked about you,” Belinda finally says.

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

“It was nice to hear her voice.” Belinda nods toward the shard in my hand. “I suppose you are not going to be telling her about any of this.”

“No.”

“She might be thinking that at some point he will come back into her life, you know. To hurt her or you or me—or to take her away from you. I can’t help wondering about that, too.”

“I know. I’ll wait until Martin is officially declared a casualty of the earthquake and then I’ll just tell her he probably died. That might not happen for a year or so. I don’t know when exactly. But I do know Candace will die first. And soon. Kat doesn’t need to lose both parents so close to each other.”

“What if he did get out, though? What if he does come looking for us? For her?”

“He won’t. Why would he? I have all those documents. He can’t risk it. And, besides, he . . . he couldn’t have gotten out. Not the way he looked when I left him.”

I have to believe I am right about that. Martin is dead to me. Dead.

“So we just wait, then, for this to truly be over?” Belinda asks a moment later.

“I think we check in with the authorities from time to time to see if there’s any word on our husbands—you with the San Mateo County Sheriff and me with the San Francisco Police. That is what concerned wives would do if their husbands went missing. And while we wait, we get up each morning and take care of our children and the inn, and we go to bed each night. We live.”

All of us except for Candace.

When we get back to the Loralei, I have to wait until Kat is in bed to tell Candace what I told Belinda on the way home. I show her the shard I brought back with me. She reaches out with one hand to hold it.

“You think this is bone?” she says.

“Could be. Might be.”

“It’s lighter than I thought it would be,” she replies. And then she hands it back.

“What do you want me to do with it?” I ask. “He was your husband.”

“I don’t care. Bury it. Burn it. Throw it into the sea. I don’t care.”

The next day I make the long trek to the mine and I shove the shard in between two large boulders blocking the entrance. A fragment of the shard splits off and falls into the dirt. I grab a rock at my feet and hammer the shard farther in. Fragments continue to fly off, but I continue until the diminished shard is firmly embedded in between the boulders. I don’t tell the others what I’ve done when I return to the inn; I just tell Belinda and Candace that what I brought home from San Francisco has been properly disposed of.