In the aftermath of his partner’s death, a shitstorm descended, the likes of which Walt had never before experienced, and Meghan Cobb was in the middle of it. To remedy the situation, Walt agreed to early retirement, secured his pension, and headed to the Caribbean where he limited his contact with Meghan to once a year—one night each June when he returned to New York to attend the annual survivors meeting. In the days leading up to the event he battled a combination of excitement and fear. In the days after, he suffered buyer’s remorse over what he’d gotten out of the trip and always wished for a do-over. He wished he had found the courage to confront her about her lies. He wished he had found the strength to express his anger about being placed in such a precarious position.

The regret passed. It always did. Then, just one dominant emotion lingered. At the bottom of every glass of rum, he found guilt. It was a dangerous spiral, and Walt Jenkins had no idea how to pull out of it.

CHAPTER 14 - Negril, Jamaica Wednesday, June 23, 2021

CHAPTER 14

Negril, Jamaica Wednesday, June 23, 2021

HE TOOK ANOTHER SIP OF THE HAMPDEN ESTATES AND ENJOYED THE sweet burn at the back of his throat. A big catamaran crept into the cove. Drunken tourists dove into the blue waters and swam toward Rick’s Cafe. Like ants emerging from a hill, the red-shouldered, paled-faced travelers climbed the ladders and materialized from the rocks below to swarm the bar. Some staggered after having chugged too much rum punch on the sail over from the all-inclusives in Negril. The herd barked orders to the bartender as Peter Tosh and Bob Marley blared from overhead speakers.

“Rum Runner.”

“Red Stripe.”

“Jamaican Breeze.”

Walt lifted his glass from the bar, slipped off his stool, and made his way through the crowd and out onto the cliff-side patio. A table for two was free and he took a seat. He wanted time to enjoy the sun and the view, to sip his rum and allow it to work its magic, but the arrival of a catamaran was usually his signal to head home. Off to his left, a local cliff diver climbed to the top of a birch tree whose limbs stretched over the edge of the bluff. A platform had been built tree-house-style into the limbs and allowed the climber to stand nearly one hundred feet above the cove. Everyone stopped drinking and craned their necks to watch his progress, cameras and cell phones trained on him. The reggae music quieted when the man sat down with his legs straddling the wooden platform and swinging in the afternoon breeze, teasing his audience and making them wait for his impending dive.

With everyone preoccupied and staring up the cliff, a man slipped into the seat across from Walt. When Walt noticed him, they both smiled.

“What an entrance,” Walt said. “Very Jack Ryan of you.”