Cliff Drop was a few short blocks from Bank Street, so John always walked it, even in the worst weather. If it was cold, he’d throw on an extra layer or two beneath his coat, and if it was raining, he’d grab an umbrella, because the chances of scoring a taxi or an Uber in terrible weather were about as good as that coyote ever catching that crazy bird.

He was crossing 6th when a van, turning the corner, hit him.

And took off.

Which was kind of strange, because from the NYPD’s reconstruction of the events, the driver was likely not at fault. They believed John had been looking at his phone and walked into the vehicle’s path when he stepped off the sidewalk.

Of course he was, Annie thought. Goddamn it, John, how many times did I tell you?

When John was struck, the phone flew from his hand and landed on the pavement about twenty feet away. When the first emergency responders arrived on the scene, they heard something. Someone saying “What’s up, doc?” followed by a familiar melody. There was a Warner Bros. cartoon playing on the phone’s screen. John had been watching it on YouTube as he walked to work.

The paramedics were able to do nothing for him at the scene. He’d died instantly. According to witness reports, the van had stopped briefly, the driver jumped out and ran over to John, knelt over him long enough to realize he had to be dead, then ran back to his van and took off. He was described by the half dozen witnesses who saw what happened as “average.” No one could provide any telling detail.

The vehicle itself was equally generic. No markings on the sides, no business name. No one noticed the license plate. Of all the surveillance video the police were able to acquire, none showed the plate clearly, or the driver behind the windshield.

The police promised to keep the investigation alive, to follow every lead. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months, it was clear the driver of the van that killed John would never be found.

Annie was again plunged into despair. If Evan’s death had felt like a cinder block on her shoulders, weighing her down, John’s death was a Sisyphean boulder she could never get up the hill even once. His passing overwhelmed her, cocooned her in grief. And as much as she probably needed to emotionally, she could not wallow in her misery this time. She had to pull herself together. If she couldn’t be strong, she at least had to present herself as such.

She had Charlie to think about.