He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in the process and producing a sharp pain in his neck as the damaged muscles constricted. The bags under his eyes were evidence of a sleepless night, which was rooted in more than just sur vivor’s guilt. Something else bothered him. He picked up his phone and scrolled through the text messages for the hundredth time. Meghan had not called—no texts and no voice mails. He had found her mailbox full when he tried to leave a message during his first coherent day out of the ICU. All subsequent text messages had gone unanswered. He had heard from both his ex-wives while he was in the hospital, and the irony was not lost on Walt that the two women who hated him most in the world had managed to reach out to check on him, but the one woman who claimed to love him was MIA.

He’d last seen Meghan a week ago, two nights before he was shot. They spent the weekend at a bed and breakfast in upstate New York, and a pang of worry overcame him. He’d justifiably been preoccupied for the last few days by his brush with death, but now he considered that something might have happened to Meghan. He didn’t have her parents’ phone number, and even if he did, calling would be a bad idea. Walt had never met Meghan’s parents. The awkward conversation would likely set off unnecessary alarm. He also scrapped the idea of reaching out to Meghan’s sister. It would be a bit dramatic, and even selfish, to worry Meghan’s family over a few unreturned phone calls.

As he stood in front of the mirror, he scrolled through his phone and shot her one more text.

“Where are you? A lot’s happened since I’ve seen you. Call me.”

He dropped his phone into his coat pocket, looked once more in the mirror but quickly gave up trying to make himself more presentable. He clicked off the lights as he left the bathroom and headed to his partner’s funeral.

CHAPTER 32 - Manhattan, NY Friday, July 2, 2021

CHAPTER 32

Manhattan, NY Friday, July 2, 2021

“YOU DOING OKAY?” THE BARTENDER ASKED.

Walt looked at his empty glass. “One more?” he asked Avery.

“Sure. I’ve got to hear the rest of this.”

The bartender refilled their glasses. It was now approaching 11:00 p.m. and they were the only ones in the bar.

“You sure?” he asked.

“We’re not leaving until I hear it.”

Walt took another sip of rum. The alcohol was producing that early effect it always provided when he thought of his partner’s funeral—a blunting of the pain that came with the memories. He placed the glass on the coaster in front of him and continued his story.