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Epilogue

You are perhaps hoping for a twist and a happy ending.

You are thinking that perhaps a mistake was made, that the body did not belong to Rhys Baldwin, that somehow Brooke and Chick got their child back.

But sometimes there is no twist. And many times, there is no happy ending.

This is, however, a happy day.

Two weeks ago, I threw Myron perhaps the most legendary bachelor party of all time. How legendary? Let us say that we hit four continents. Myron, of course, was a very good boy. It is how he always is. I, you’ll be happy to note, was bad enough for the both of us. So too were Esperanza and Big Cyndi.

What, you say, women at a bachelor party?

Times change, my friend.

Today I am dressed in tails as Myron’s best man. It is odd. Myron has always dreamed of this day, of marrying the love of his life and settling down and starting a family. The gods have, alas, had other plans for him. I, for one, have never encouraged such thinking. I don’t really get the whole “love” thing.

Or I didn’t.

Myron is more than my best friend. The youngsters call what we have a “bromance,” and perhaps that is apropos. I love Myron. I want-no, I need-him happy. I have missed him over the past year, though I was often closer than he knew. The night he saw Hamilton? I was three rows behind him. When he found his brother, Brad, in that horrible place, I was not that far away.

Just in case.

I love him. And I want him to be happy.

There have been other loves in his life, most significantly a woman named Jessica. But Terese is different. You notice it when you are with them. They are one thing apart from another. They are something entirely different, entirely spectacular when they are together. Simply put, if everything is a chemical reaction-and I believe it is-these two compounds combine to make an ecstatic whole.

I knock on the door. Terese says, “Come in.”

I enter.

“Well?” she says, spinning toward me.

Have you ever seen a beautiful, happy bride in a wedding gown? Then you know.

“Wow,” I say.

“You sound like Myron.”

I pick up her hand and kiss it.

“I just wanted to wish you well,” I tell her. “I want you to know that like it or not, I will always be there for you.”

She nods. “I know.”

“And if you break his heart, I’ll break your legs.”

“I know that too.”

I kiss her cheek and leave the room.

You are probably wondering about the repercussions after Rhys’s body was discovered. Allow me to fill you in. As you saw in the news, the entire truth has come out. No one, of course, is charging Patrick with any crime. As Brooke said, standing over that ravine, he was just a child.

The Baldwins-Brooke, Chick, and Clark-are as well as one might expect. Myron likes to say that even the ugliest truth is better than the prettiest of lies. I don’t know whether that is always the case, but it seems to be the case here. They know now. Brooke buried Rhys in our family cemetery outside Philadelphia. They mourn and continue to mourn.

But they also move on.

Clark remains a close friend and college suitemate of Francesca’s. She didn’t know the truth until Patrick returned. Nancy Moore felt that her daughter would be strong enough and mature enough to handle it then.

She was, of course, wrong.

For the most part, Hunter Moore has recovered from his injuries. There will be charges, mostly related to his halfhearted kidnapping of Vada Linna. I don’t know how that case will turn out. We will have to see.

As for Nancy Moore, law enforcement is actively searching for her, though I doubt that she is much of a priority. After her release on her own recognizance that night, Nancy Moore, it seems, took a page out of her son’s playbook and disappeared into the ether. Law enforcement insists that they will not rest until she is found.

Myron asked me whether we would search for her too-if we would help bring Nancy Moore to justice.

No, I told him. We did this for Brooke. If it is over for her, then it is over for us.

But enough about that.

Myron is getting married today. I stand up on the dais with him. When his bride-to-be turns the corner, when he first gets a look at Terese in her gown, I hear Myron mutter, “Wow.”

I smile and say, “I concur.”

Terese’s parents are deceased, so Myron’s father, Al, escorts her down the aisle. I look out over the crowd. They are all in this room. Big Cyndi is the maid of honor. Esperanza comes out from behind the curtain. She will, very soon, officiate this wedding. Oh, you may be wondering about the Little Pocahontas and Big Chief Mama situation. They both decided to retire their former Native American aliases. Some may mourn that. Not Esperanza. “Giving a culture too much respect,” Esperanza told me, “never killed anyone.”

Times change, my friend.

Myron takes a deep breath. I see the tears form in his eyes. I put my hand on his shoulder to give us both strength. He reaches over and acknowledges the gesture. We wait for Myron’s father to bring Terese to the dais.

Much of the ceremony passes in a haze for me.

When Esperanza gives me the signal, I hand Myron the ring.

We are best friends and I love him.

But, sorry, sometimes the prettiest lie is better than the truth.

So I will never tell Myron. Though I wonder whether he suspects it.

The morning after Rhys’s body was found, he called me on the phone. “Where’s the gun?” he asked.

“What?”

“Patrick’s gun.”

“Oh,” I lied. “The police confiscated it.”

There was a hesitation-maybe a second too long-before he said, “Okay.”

You may think I kept the gun. I didn’t.

If you remember, Brooke was the one who took the gun from Patrick.

The call I got when we arrived back at the Dakota? That was from Brooke. I went back and helped her clean up. The police were able to find enough remains to identify, even ten years later, my cousin Rhys.

That will never happen with Nancy Moore.

No one will ever find the slightest trace.

Oh, there will be sightings. An anonymous call will claim they saw her on a beach in Fiji. Someone else will say she’s living in a monastery in the hills of Tuscany. Or perhaps someone will spot her in London, where Zorra is currently paying a visit to a certain rotund pedophile.

Nancy Moore will forever be in hiding, a mystery.

The ceremony ends. I watch Myron lift Terese’s veil. He pauses because-I know him, you see-he wants to drink in this moment. He gets how rare this moment is and he wants to stop and appreciate it.

He just wants this moment to last.

Myron is good about that.

I don’t know if I agree with what Brooke did or if I would have done the same in her place. But it is not my place to question her judgment. Nancy Moore robbed her not only of her only son but also of closure. She did immeasurable damage to Chick and Clark. She knew the truth for ten years and let her suffer. She took Brooke’s life away from her. She took Brooke’s child, her baby, and tossed him like so much trash down a ravine.

You tell me what the price should be.

I also confess that perhaps I’m being sexist. If Nancy Moore had been a man-if Hunter Moore had found the body that day and thrown a six-year-old away like so much refuse, ruining lives, destroying my cousin, her husband, her young child, would I think twice about making him pay?

One wonders.

Brooke and I are alike. We share a bond. Perhaps that bond is not always a good thing. Did Brooke act in a moment of understandable maternal fury? Would Brooke do it again if she had time to reconsider?

I don’t know.

But I wonder about Nancy Moore’s decisions too as a mother. Was Nancy Moore initially afraid to go to the police because she would be charged with a crime or because her son would be forever scarred or because Chick had some dubious business associates who might do her harm?

Or did Nancy understand that the most dangerous rage might come from a mother who lost her child?

But now I watch Myron step on the glass. The crowd stands and roars its approval. Myron Bolitar, married man, runs down the aisle with his loving bride.

I will spare you the tears and hugs and congratulations.

I will skip instead to the opening song. It is, well, gag worthy, though typical of Myron. The DJ calls Myron and his mother, Ellen, for the mother-son dance. Ellen Bolitar is shaking from Parkinson’s, but Myron takes his mother’s hand and leads her to the dance floor.

No one moves.

The music starts. The song Ellen chose is by Bruce Springsteen. I listen as the Boss aptly croons:

“If I should fall behind,

Wait for me.”

We all watch them dance. I glance across the room and see the faces. Big Cyndi is crying hysterically. She does not hold back her plaintive wails. It is lovely. Myron’s sister has flown in from Seattle. His brother, Brad, and Brad’s wife, Kitty, are back. They stand next to Mickey and Ema. Mickey and Ema are holding hands. I try not to stare.

The DJ says, “Will everyone please join Myron and his mother, Ellen, on the dance floor?”

Myron’s dad, Al, escorts Terese to the dance floor. Young Mickey takes over for Myron and dances with his grandmother as only an awkward teenager can. Esperanza finds Myron. These two, my dearest friends, share the dance.

Others join in, filling the floor. I am content to watch.

This, my friends, is life.

Hey, I’m not above a gag-worthy sentiment now and again.

I feel her standing next to me before she speaks.

“You’re Win, right?”

I turn to Ema.

“I am.”

“My mom told me to say hello.”

I manage a nod. “Tell Angelica I say hello back.”

She looks at me a long second. Then she says, “Do you want to dance?”

She has no idea what this means to me. Or maybe she does? I thought that her mother would never tell her. Did she? Or could it be that Ema is incredibly perceptive and intuitive?

That could be in her genes.

It is hard for me to find my voice. “That would be lovely,” I manage to say.

We move to the dance floor. We face each other. She puts one hand on my shoulder and the other hand in mine. We start to dance. At some point Ema moves closer. She rests her head on my shoulder.

I barely move. I barely breathe.

I just want this moment to last.