“All right,” said Kate. They watched Murder, She Wrote and Jessica Fletcher solved another mystery in Cabot Cove. Shawn took the next day off school and went to the oncologist with Kate. He talked with the doctor about her options. He pocketed some brochures to take home and read later. He asked questions. He learned what the word mastectomy meant. He held Kate’s hand for the first time. At home, he put her to bed even though it was only three in the afternoon. An hour later, he went out to meet the twins at the school bus. He told them that Kate wasn’t feeling well. He made more Hamburger Helper, beef stroganoff. He made a salad. He even made milkshakes for dessert.

He made the decision to stop stepping back. He made the decision to stay still.

—

But this is not a movie, and last night Kate didn’t wake up. So to distract himself from thoughts of Katriina and the baby, Shawn went out and got completely shitfaced with some of the kitchen staff from Kahvila at some dive bar that he used to frequent before he was married, until he realized that getting drunk with his employees was probably a really bad idea – maybe his last lucid thought of the evening. He remembers stumbling up to one of those new bars on Red River, where a live band was playing and no one paid any attention to him as he sat down at a table in a corner, his head in his hands. He asked the waitress for a bottle of water and a shot of Johnnie Walker, but somehow she ended up bringing him a beer instead, so he nursed it while he watched the band play, a wall of sound that washed over him and blocked out everything else, including his own sorry thoughts.

He also remembers – suddenly, sharply, like a kick in the ribs – what happened when the band stopped playing. The woman at the next table, ordering another drink. That voice, low and sexy, that he would know anywhere. Cutting clean through him like a taut piece of wire.

“Hey,” he said. The woman ignored him. “Hey,” he said again, louder. “Cassandra Coelho.”

She turned, flashing him an on-air smile. “Nice to see you,” she said.

“Cassandra Coelho.” He stood up, pushing back his chair, which clattered to the floor. Heads turned. “You better stop fucking with my family, Cassandra Coelho.” He had meant to sound intimidating, a little like Liam Neeson, maybe, in control, authoritative. Thinking back on it now, he knows how he really sounded: drunk, crazy.