On Sunday morning Avery and Connie took a sail aboard the Moorings 35.2 that was moored at Connie’s dock. Avery knew the boat, built by Beneteau, was sturdy, well designed, and expertly crafted. It didn’t stop her from meticulously inspecting every detail. By seven in the morning they were on an even heel with Connie at the helm. Even after losing her life’s savings, Connie Clarkson’s passion never faded. The woman lived to sail. Avery owned a thirty-five-foot Catalina that she docked in Santa Monica and sailed nearly every weekend. Despite this, she took instruction from her old mentor as if she hadn’t sailed in years. They made it to Washington Island before turning back. The spinnaker flapped wildly as they came about, and then filled again as they reached a close-hauled course on their new tack. As the boat dug into a fifteen-degree heel, they both sat back and enjoyed the ride. Over the last few years, Avery had seen pain and disappointment affect Connie in unmistakable ways. But today, as she sat at the helm of this particular sailboat, Avery saw the sparkle she remembered from her teenage years return to Connie’s eyes.

By afternoon Avery was back in her Range Rover and on the road again, eyes red rimmed and burning from her good-bye. Five hours later she fought traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway as she battled through Chicago. It was dark by the time she made it across Indiana and into Ohio and started looking for a hotel. The first stop of her journey was behind her—the annual pilgrimage to Connie Clarkson’s home. Avery had another full day of driving before she would reach New York. There, she would chase the story of a 9/11 victim identified twenty years after the Twin Towers fell. But really, she would be chasing something else.

As she drove, the postcard sat on the passenger seat. It carried an image of a wooden cabin surrounded by the leaves of autumn. On the back was handwriting Avery had recognized the moment she pulled it from her mailbox. She had ripped up the card when she realized whom it was from. Later, though, the untamable lure of unconditional love found her, and the natural bond that ties daughters to their fathers emerged and forced her to tape the pieces back together and read her father’s words. It did not take long to dawn on her that her father hadn’t sent the card because he missed her. He hadn’t sent it to acknowledge his wife’s passing. He sent it because he needed help.

Getting in touch with her father would be dangerous. Offering assistance of any kind would be outright stupid. She had nothing to gain from doing so, but everything to lose. Still, she couldn’t stop looking at the numbers her father had written along the bottom of the card.

777