Vancouver Noir

Terminal City by Linda L. Richards

English Bay

I first hear about the assignment through a text, as is usual. The text never varies much in tone, though the number is always different.

Hey, sunshine! How’s life treating you?

And my response is always pretty much the same: I told you it was over. Stop bugging me or I’ll block you. Or, I’ve moved on. Let’s not do this anymore, okay? Or something else that indicates there will be no further response. And that’s how I know to go to e-mail.

The e-mail is untraceable. It comes from the deep web via a Tor browser and it stays on the server. There’s nothing downloaded to my computer. I don’t take any chances. And neither do they, even though I don’t know who “they” are. Only that I get my instructions, execute the job (pardon the pun), then report back when it’s done. Within twenty-four hours, there is a deposit to my Bitcoin account. By now I have more Bitcoins than I know what to do with. Not a lot of the things I desire can be bought. I keep doing the work anyway. At this stage, I wouldn’t even know what else to do.

So I check my e-mail. And it is cryptic, but I know what it all means.

And a name.

The first two numbers are the target’s home. The second two are the preferred location for the hit. And they want him taken out as soon as possible and it has to be an accident. AD. Accidental Death.

I plug the second set of coordinates into an app on my phone. It turns out to be an office building in downtown Vancouver. I book my travel and hotel then get an early night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a difficult day no matter how well it goes. Assignments always equal difficult days. Nature of the beast.

I decide to take my Bersa. Check a bag. I don’t plan to use the gun, but I’ve done some research: license to carry means I can legally bring it along. I pop it into the compartment in my suitcase where I used to store my underwear while traveling. Most of the time I can’t remember that person anymore.

There is nothing that binds me to my house. No man, no kids, not even a cat. Still, when I lock the door to go away even for a few days, I leave a little pang behind. Maybe missing something I don’t have. Again. I try not to think about that.

There are no direct flights from my local airport to Vancouver. I have to go through Phoenix, an airport I know well, because it’s a hub. I have a lunch in the airport so good it’s ridiculous. Airport food is not supposed to be excellent, but I savor it. I’m heading to a foreign country. One I’ve never been to before. I’m not certain there will be anything good to eat. Maple syrup and beavers. Possibly cheese. I just can’t imagine what Canadians might eat.

I sleep much of the way to Vancouver. There is nothing else to do. But once we land I have an awakening of the senses. It smells very green. As soon as the plane’s stale conditioned air is released, I smell something rough and new. A bit of the mountains. A bit of the sea. My heart quickens with it in a way I don’t understand.

In the terminal one must deal with customs.

What is the purpose of your visit?

Why, pleasure. Of course.

What else?

To see this jewel. This well-designed city perched charmingly on the sea.

How long will you be here?

A few days. Perhaps a week. There is so much to enjoy!

Have a great visit!

Oh yes. Yes. Of course. I shall.

The city itself is stunning. City of Glass. Of ocean. The Terminal City, I’d seen in my research. So called because it was the end of the line when they built the railroad. Or the beginning, depending on your perspective.

My hotel is on English Bay facing the ocean. A venerated hotel that has been here since the century before the one just past, I’d read. A long time.

“Do you know Errol Flynn’s dick fell off at this hotel?” says one of the young women checking in right ahead of me. There are two of them.

“Who’s Errol Flynn?” asks the other.

“Wasn’t he with Pearl Jam for a while?” I offer, deadpan. The two girls look at each other, then give me a wide berth as they head for the elevator. I don’t blame them. It’s probably the right call.

I have arrived in the evening and it’s raining. After spending not much time in my hotel room, I grab an umbrella from the concierge and head out the front door into a light and refreshing rain. I don’t need time to think, but I’ve got time to kill and walking seems like the right call.

There is a seawall in Vancouver. It snakes around the edge of the city, a pedestrian highway at the edge of the water. I walk this now. Not thinking about my destination or if I even really have one, just enjoying the city at night.

I am in a safe area, at least at first, populated by tourists and fashionable couples. I walk on the seawall toward the city, not the big park near the hotel. After a while I have an idea of where I am going. I let my feet take me there.

I walk along the seawall as far as I can, then up a few blocks to where tomorrow I plan to do what I’ve been sent to do. And when I get where I’m going, I stand there in the rain for a few minutes, looking at the building, thinking of what approach I will take on the following day. I am so focused, and maybe so tired, that I am startled when the front door opens and a man pops out. He is energetic and more youthful than the photo I’d been sent led me to think he would be, but I have no doubt it’s he.

Though I am a few feet from the entrance, to my surprise my invisibility shield of middle-aged woman doesn’t hold and he crosses to me in a few strong steps. He does it so quickly, I have no time to collect myself and scurry away.

“Is everything all right?” he says. He is concerned. It is possible this is not a neighborhood a woman can safely wander around in by herself at night. I hadn’t known that.

“Well, sure,” I reply reflexively. “I’m a bit of a tourist. Out for an evening walk. I guess I got turned around.”

“I guess you did,” he says, and I look at him quickly, but there is nothing but warmth in his voice, on his face. Honest concern. “What’s a bit of a tourist, anyway? Never mind. You can tell me while we walk. I’m heading home now myself. Where are you staying?”

“I’m at the Sylvia.”

He nods approvingly and starts guiding me west as we walk. “In the West End. Good choice. Charming. Not ostentatious. And all the right ghosts.”

“Errol Flynn?” I say, pushing myself to keep up with his longer strides.

“Oh yeah. Him. Sure. But others. Some apparition sits on the bed in one of the rooms on the sixth floor. Something I read. You’re not on the sixth floor, are you?”

I shake my head.

“You should be all right then.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Where are you walking me?”

“I live in Coal Harbour, which is quite close. I’m going to see you home.”

“Ah,” I say, trying not to think about how complicated this is getting. And then after a while, not minding. We enjoy a companionable silence, and when we chat, words move easily between us. As we walk, he points out things of interest. He does it easily and well, and I can tell he is used to being treated like he has things worth saying. He asks what I do, and something I’d read in the in-flight magazine provides the answer. I tell him I’m a civic planner, sent to Vancouver to evaluate local design.

“A lot of people are doing that now,” he says. “I read that somewhere. Apparently we have a lot of civic design worth emulating. Who knew?”

I wonder if we’d read the same article, but don’t say anything.

“For various reasons,” he says when we reach the hotel, “I’m loath to go back to my lonely abode just yet. Will you join me for a drink in the bar?”

We sit at a table by the window. As we sip and chat, a part of me dips down to darker places. Who wants this man dead? An ex-wife? A business partner? A competitor? I seldom wonder. It’s not part of my concern. And I seldom have reason to know or find out. I try to stop myself from wondering now.

“Are you married?” I give it thought before saying the words. It might even seem curious if I don’t ask, that’s what I tell myself.

“I was,” he says. “I’m not now. What about you?” And this is another thing I find myself liking in him: his directness. Even his eyes meet mine as he asks. A pleasant slatey color. Like stone warmed by sun.

“Same,” I hear myself say. “Just the same.” And we smile as we sip, almost as though we’ve shared a joke, something like fire growing between us.

It is not inevitable that he should end up in my bed on the not-haunted third floor of the Sylvia Hotel. When it happens, though, I try not to think about consequences. I wonder at what I am feeling. As though I’d known it would happen from the moment he’d taken those few strong strides toward me as I stood outside his office building in the rain. Like nothing else had been possible. If I wasn’t certain of that before, it had become clear in the elevator, the hard length of him pressed into me, his tongue exploring the delicate lines of my ear, my chin, my neck.

By the time our unclothed bodies join in the ancient bed, I know it solidly: this was meant to be. Human touch has become difficult for me. But not here now, with him. His warmth and laughter and the touch of his skin have melted whatever reserve there might have been.

We call for room service after a while. His exertions have made him hungry, he says. And he wants something to drink. He answers the door with a towel wrapped around him and I admire the way the muscles move under his skin.

He’s ordered grilled squid and stuffed mushrooms, and a crab cake too big for its own good. We share the food and wine with the abandon and comfort of long lovers. Feeding each other and laughing together, giddy with something too precious to hold.

I like the strong, hot feel of him. And the way laughter storms his face. And the intensity with which he watches me when I speak, meeting my eyes. Watching for signs of things not said. Ever watchful.

There is a time when we sleep, feet touching, his hand cupped gently into the curve between my legs. I don’t know when wakefulness falls away, but it comes to both of us all at once. After a while, though, I wake. I pull the covers over us and extinguish the lights and try not to think about what I need to do. As I’ve said: human connections don’t come easily to me anymore. And yet I feel something easy growing more quickly than I would have thought possible. It leaves me a little breathless. Leaves me thinking about the possibility of a life that has more light.

I think about the Bersa, snug in the room safe. See myself, in my mind’s eye, creeping toward him, holding the gun to the soft, flat spot just behind his left ear. Letting in the bullet that will find its way home.

His eyes fly open and he regards me levelly. I feel my color rise.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about how beautiful you are,” I say without missing a beat. “When you sleep, I mean. You looked so very peaceful.”

He smiles then. A real smile. His teeth are white and even. A movie star’s smile.

“You’re lying,” he says cheerfully. “But that’s okay.” I start to protest but he stops me. And he is right. It is okay. My thoughts are my own.

In the morning, he leaves early with the air of a man who has places to go. He drops a kiss on my forehead before he bustles out the door. I realize we haven’t made any plans and I find I don’t mind. I have my own plans to consider. My own future. Because, at the moment, his doesn’t look bright. I feel a pang at the place where comfort and satisfaction should be.

I stay in bed for a while, luxuriating in the feel of crisp hotel sheets and my own postcoital glow. I am outwardly calm but my brain is seething with all of these new permutations. I am processing.

I have a job to do. If I decline, he’ll end up just as dead. It might delay things by a week or so, maybe not even that. I’m not the only hired gun around.

Thinking that makes me realize something: they’ve brought me a long way and from another country to do this hit. There is a reason for that. I think further. Who is this guy?

Some simple googling brings results right away, but none that answer the question. He’d designed a Sterling engine that purifies water based on a proprietary system that uses graphene. A byproduct of the purification system had been a graphene-based fuel cell that is thinner and lighter than any other. That had been a decade ago. He now heads a company that develops and implements new solutions for both of those things: water purification and alternate fuel sources. The company has been successful enough that he is also at the head of a large nonprofit doing good work in third world countries cleaning water and providing power. He is a good guy with a social conscience and the success to do something with his gifts. Nothing I read about him makes me like him less.

And someone wants him dead.

I see no one obvious who might be responsible. He heads a private company, so a takeover move seems unlikely. No visible enemies. But experience has shown me that you can never tell what it looks like inside someone else’s life.

I give thought to sending a text, beginning a sequence, to find out who bought the hit, but I know it is a useless avenue. A network like the one I am part of didn’t get and stay successful by easily giving up sensitive information. It strikes me that even asking about it might put both him and my livelihood in jeopardy. Maybe even my life.

I consider my options. I can do the job I have come to do. If I do, I will know it was tidy and he didn’t suffer. Or I could feasibly not do the job without too much loss of face or reputation if I did it quickly and like a professional. “Something’s come up.” He’d certainly end up just as dead, but it would not be by my hand.

I don’t love either of these options, so I toy briefly with the idea of telling him the truth, or something close to it. That there is danger here. For everyone concerned. But I know his knowledge won’t protect him. Possibly nothing can.

I go for another walk. The seawall is a different place on a sunny midday than it was at night in the rain — large ocean-going vessels at anchor in the protected water of the bay, while sailboats bob around them like ponies playing in a field.

The seawall itself is packed with jovial traffic. Mothers and nannies pushing strollers. Kids on skateboards gearing up to make injuries they’ll regret in a couple of decades. Hairy youths followed by clouds of marijuana smoke flouting a law that is imprecise. All manner of humanity out to enjoy Vancouver in the sunshine. I soak it in, enjoying the feeling of sun on my skin and the warmth that kisses the top of my head. I lift my face to it and my phone rings.

“What does your day look like?” he asks.

“Looks like sunshine,” I say in truth. “What a gorgeous city.”

“How would you like to see beyond it? I have to run up to Squamish to see a man about a dog. Wanna come? I figure after we could go to Whistler for dinner. How does that sound?”

None of the place names have any meaning to me. It doesn’t matter.

“Do you really have to see a man about a dog?”

“I do not. It’s an expression. It’s a meeting. Won’t take long.”

“Sure. Okay. If it’s not an actual dog, that changes everything. I’m maybe half an hour from my hotel. So any time after that?”

“Perfect.” I can hear the smile. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

By the time he pulls up in a sleek, long car, I’ve checked out of the hotel and am sitting on a bench out front, enjoying the sunshine. Waiting.

We follow a ribbon of highway out of town — raw young mountains, snow-kissed peaks, an ocean that laps at the edges of our journey at various points. I am lulled. The feeling of being out of control, like a little kid, and the grown-ups are taking you on vacation. That is how I feel. It’s not terrible.

At Squamish, he has his meeting while I find a café nearby and do more research, trying the dark web this time. Still nothing. He truly seems to be a straight-up, straight-shooting, well-liked guy. If there are skeletons, I can’t see them.

“You looked so intense,” he observes when he joins me. “As though what you were contemplating was life and death.”

“I was googling you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I just wondered if we had... I dunno? The right stuff.”

He drops down into the chair opposite mine. “Right for what?” he asks with an air of innocence.

“Exactly,” I say, deliberately obtuse.

“What did you conclude?”

“No conclusion,” I say tartly. “And here we both are.”

“Exactly,” he says. And the smile he gives me goes right to his eyes. “And what would I find if I were to google you?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I am an enigma.”

One eyebrow shoots up, but he doesn’t say anything.

“A cipher,” I add. “Maybe I don’t exist at all.”

“A cipher. An enigma. Those are interesting ways to describe oneself. And if that is the case, how is it that this cipheric—”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

“—enigmatic woman should come into my life? What message does that bring?”

“That would be an arrogant way to frame things,” I say, smiling brightly and hoping he doesn’t see how close to the mark he’s come.

To my relief, he laughs. “It would, wouldn’t it? Of course. Everything is about me!”

“But all our worlds are, aren’t they?”

“I guess they are. Never mind. Let’s get back on the road. We’ve still got nearly an hour before dinner.”

The big car slips along the highway soundlessly for a while before I chance the question I’ve been formulating. It seems a risk worth taking. And we’ve got a long drive.

“If someone were going to kill you, who would it be?” I say, as conversationally as I can manage.

He looks at me quickly before pulling his eyes back to the road. “That’s a weird question.”

“Right?”

He laughs. I’m not sure if I hear an uneasy note, though I listen closely for it.

“Okay,” he says. “You first.”

“Me?” He’s taken me by surprise. He does that a lot. “Well... I’d have to think.”

“That’s what I’m doing. My turning it around was a stall tactic.”

“Ah.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested. Go ahead and answer.”

“Well... there might be too many to count,” I say truthfully. “But they wouldn’t know my name.”

“Well, it would seem you are safe then.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So no one in particular? Your ex?”

“No. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.

“It’s okay,” my response is automatic. In this moment almost not remembering the man who had been my husband. I put it from my mind. “Sometimes I barely remember myself.”

“Children?”

“No,” I say, turning my head quickly. I watch the darkening scenery. We are powering through a forest. The trees going by so fast, they are a solid blur of brown and green.

We are quiet for a while. When he speaks it’s like there has been no interruption.

“I don’t think there’s anyone who would want me dead. I don’t know if that means I’ve lived an exemplary life or if I’m just too vanilla.”

“Maybe neither,” I say. “Maybe something entirely different is true.”

“I think most people go through their whole lives without anyone ever trying to kill them,” he says, as though he’s given it some thought.

“You say that based on what?”

He laughs. “I don’t know. The number of people running around not dead?”

“So not your ex-wife?”

“We’re still on the kill-me thing?”

I grunt.

“Okay then,” he says. “But not my ex. No. We get along and our arrangement suits us both. And she’s well compensated. It’s possible she’d get less money if someone offed me.”

“Well that’s good. No one wants to sit around wondering if his ex is thinking about putting a knife in his back.”

“Exactly. So do I pass?”

“Pass what?”

“Well, I don’t know. It felt like some kind of courtship test. I wonder how I did.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re too competitive?”

“All the time.” He pats the steering wheel. “How else do you think I ended up with a Tesla?”

“You play to win.” It’s not a question.

“Always.”

He is slowing, pulling into the village. We are months from ski season, but at a glance, the sort of Alpine-village-meets-Rodeo-Drive motif seems to have something for everyone year round.

Walking around the village, I see it is even more charming and unreal than I’d first suspected. Disney does a ski village. Quaint little shops, trendy bars and eateries block after block. See and be seen. He leads me into one of these.

The food is exceptional yet somehow not memorable, though conversation between us is as engaging as ever. It’s easy to talk with him. No uncertain pauses or painful holes. I am easy with him. I surprise myself.

After dinner, we walk through the village hand-in-hand, sharing jokes and effortless conversation. In that walk, a shaft of pure happiness comes to me. Just this moment filled with nothing but what is right here, in front of me. For the first time in my recollection, everything I have is enough. And maybe I am enough too.

Maybe.

Other thoughts try to crowd in, but somehow I keep them at bay. Just a little longer, I plead with no one at all. Just let me feel this a bit longer. I’ll figure things out later, but right now let me have this.

“So what now?” he says when we’re heading back toward the city.

“I don’t have a plan.”

“You checked out of your hotel.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I say.

“How long are you in town?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’ll come and stay with me.”

“All right.”

His place is exactly what I’d expected. The top floor of a glass high-rise with views of the city all around and whispers of ocean and far mountains beyond.

“Do Vancouver views get any better than this?” I ask.

“Not much,” he admits. “That’s how I ended up here.”

“It’s all about the view?”

“Sure. And the jetted tubs. Check it out.”

He leads me to three bathrooms, each one more exquisite than the last.

“Multiple bedrooms too,” he says with a theatrical leer. “You can take your pick.”

“I’ll want one close to where you are,” I quip back, a line he finds uproariously funny.

He opens a beautiful bottle of wine and we sit on high stools at the counter in the kitchen. The view of the city is stunning. It takes my breath away.

“So beautiful you could die.”

He looks at me sharply. “What is it with you and dying all the time?” I can’t read his voice.

“I... I don’t know. I’ve... I’ve lost people. I guess that’s what it is. It brings it closer. Makes it more real.”

“Your husband,” he says.

“Yes. Him... and others. Listen, I’m enjoying myself so much with you. I don’t really want to talk about this now, okay?”

“Some other time, maybe?”

“Yes. Okay. Some other time. Maybe.”

We both know it is a lie.

In the morning, he gets up to go to the office. Before he leaves he drops a kiss on my forehead and a set of keys on the bed.

“Make yourself at home. And if you’re into it this evening, there’s a new restaurant I’ve been wanting to check out. You’re a good excuse.”

“Again with the excuses. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“Dork,” he accuses.

“And the keys,” I say. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll rob you blind?”

“Not particularly. As far as I can see, there’s nothing more precious than you in this apartment.”

I just look at him, my heart in a cloud. I don’t know what to say and part of me feels dangerously close to tears. I put it down to hormones and move on.

Without him in the space to warm it, the apartment is even more massive. I drink the coffee he left for me and nibble on some fruit, then roam around the space dwarfed by his bathrobe, looking at his stuff.

In the sports-themed media room I turn on the television, then spend a quarter-hour figuring out how to make the channels work, remembering for a moment a time when there was only on and off.

When I finally locate the channels, they are filled with news. A serial killer is under discussion. Everything is heinous. There are hushed tones. The thought comes to me that there are those who would view me as a serial killer. I sink into the plush sofa behind me, pushed by the weight of this thought.

They would not be wrong, those people. I have killed serially. One after the other, I have taken lives. I don’t know how many now.

I wonder if I have not considered it that way before because of the money. There is no emotion for me with any of these killings. It’s a job. These are not random, violent acts. I am a professional. I put thought into what I do, never emotion. And the deaths are always humane. Many of my targets go from living to death completely without awareness. I’ve watched their faces at times, so I know.

I look again at the sketch of the unknown serial killer on the screen.

I think again of my lover, my host.

I close my eyes tightly. Push back the flood that threatens. I’ve held it off this long. It has been years now. I know I can do it again. I turn my attention back to the screen. The clipped Canadian accent now describing the killer’s heinous act. She’s mixing gun control into the conversation baldly. And she is matter-of-fact. There are statistics that all add up to the fact that people kill people with guns. The numbers are so horrendous they seem to make no sense. So deeply do I immerse myself in these thoughts that when my phone rings I jump, startled, and feel my heart begin to pound.

“What are you doing?” His voice, firm and warm. I suddenly want him here. To feel the firm, real length of him. To feel his strength. His warmth. And, yes, his desire and humanity.

“I’m watching television, if you can believe it.”

“Good! You figured it out. Bright girl. I often have trouble with it myself.”

“Why are you calling? Did you want to check to see what I stole?”

His laugh is deep. I could listen to it all day.

“Not at all. But if you do steal something, can you please take the sculpture in the foyer? My decorator said I paid a lot for it, but I don’t care for it much.”

We chat a bit more. To me we sound like normal people and that wrenches at my heart. I had not thought I’d sound or feel like normal people again.

And yet, of course, we aren’t like normal people at all. The reality of that washes over me again in a wave.

“You ever think about running away to a desert island?” The thought comes from nowhere and I just blurt it out.

“Let’s do it. I’ll peel grapes and fan you with coconut leaves.”

“What sort of desert island has grapes?” I ask.

And so on. Because it is right there and because we can.

We agree: I’ll meet him at the restaurant at six and then we’ll come “home” together. The way that makes me feel confuses me so deeply I can’t look at it.

I spend the rest of the morning performing a methodical search of the premises. I don’t know what I’m looking for but I need to do something to dispel the restless energy. Plus I have questions. And I feel some of the answers might be hidden here.

So I toss the place. Searching deeply and carefully without leaving a trace. I don’t know what I’m looking for but when I find it — deep in a bathroom cabinet — everything falls into place.

It is a stash of drugs. Prescription medications. Zytiga. Rasburicase. CAPOX. Lenalidomide. Dexamethasone. Elotuzumab. Neupogen. And more still. I have no idea what I’m looking at, but all of the prescriptions have been filled within the last year. And they are all in his name.

I photograph the bottles, then replace them before heading to my laptop to hunker down and do some more googling. I easily determine they are all drugs used in the treatment of cancer and, coordinating the dates, it doesn’t take an oncologist to guess that the prognosis is not good.

I don’t remember the rest of the day. There was waking in his arms. Then my discovery. And there was his potential explanation. And there was nothing I could put between that would have the balance of the day make sense for me.

The restaurant proves to be the kind Vancouver does very well. Elegance so understated it appears causal, until you glance at the prices and see a different story. In this one, everything seems like traditional comfort food, but with some exotic twist. And so hamburgers, but instead of bacon, the menu advertises the addition of lardon. And coleslaw isn’t just chopped cabbage, it’s a creamy ginger slaw with jicama and organic heritage carrots. It all seems a bit much.

“Isn’t this place fun?” he says when he joins me.

I smile. He appears happy to be pleasing me, so I leave it be but find myself watching him closely, a new layer between us now. Are his hands stable? Does he look at all wan? How do his clothes fit his frame? But I only know this version of him; no before to hold against the after in front of me.

I find I can’t focus enough on the menu and ask him to order for me. He lifts an eyebrow in my direction, but doesn’t say anything, ordering vegetables that have been variously roasted and then put together with strong flavors — beets with harissa, cauliflower with chimichurri, and a chicken that has apparently been flame-broiled under a brick, which seems senseless, but I hold my tongue as I sip the cocktail he ordered us in advance of the meal.

“You’re quiet tonight. Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” I say. “There’s something I want to talk to you about. I don’t know where to begin.”

“Sounds ominous.”

Another sip. “It is.”

“You want to talk about it now or leave it until after dinner?”

“Are you sick?”

“So we’re opting for now.”

“I think it’s possible you are unwell.”

The levity falls off him and he looks at me, exposed. There’s a sudden haggard cast to his features.

“Sorry?” And it seems to me he says it in such a Canadian way.

“Yes,” I say.

He dips his eyes to his lap. Then raises them to a point just above and to the left of my face. He is searching for a reply, for something to say. But he can’t meet my eyes.

“How could you tell?” he asks at length.

“I couldn’t. I didn’t. I found your stash.”

“It wasn’t out.”

“I dug.”

“Ah.” He drops his eyes again. I can’t imagine what he is thinking about.

“How bad?” I ask when neither of us has said anything for a while. The remnants of cocktails are whisked away. Wine brought and approved and poured. We are sipping that, largely ignoring the appetizers that arrive at the same time.

I see him consider my question then appear to decide to give up and give in. I have the feeling that whatever he tells me at this point will be the truth.

“As bad as you can imagine,” he says. It’s not what I want to hear.

“You don’t look sick.” The words escape before I can stop myself.

He laughs. A brittle sound. “I even say that to myself. To my mirror self. It’s foolish, right? Perfect health.”

“And yet...”

“Exactly. I’m assured it won’t last.”

“The appearance of health?”

“Right. I’m told from here it will get ugly.”

“When?” I ask, but I don’t think I really want to know.

“Weeks. Possibly months. Certainly no longer.”

“And so you ordered a hit.” My voice is quiet. Still. I can feel tears standing in my eyes, but I will myself not to cry.

He looks at me sharply. Is he surprised? Or not surprised at all? I can’t tell.

“That’s right. It seemed the most humane thing for all concerned.”

“Under the circumstances.”

“Yes.”

“What were the specifications?” I ask, though I think I know the answer. “How did you imagine it would be?”

“Well, obviously, I want it to be fast. Other than that, I’d rather not know.”

“That makes sense.”

The waiter arrives with our entrees. We sip some more at the wine and push the food around on our plates.

“I really am very sorry to learn all of this.” I hesitate. Add, “I can’t even tell you how sorry I am.”

“Thanks. And I guess I know.”

“I guess you do.” I hesitate again. And then, “So... now?”

“I don’t want to know. Don’t want to see it coming.”

“But now is too soon,” I protest, keeping my voice calm. And my heart.

“I don’t want to be one of those who goes out flailing.” He says this calmly. Matter-of-fact. “I can’t be.”

“But you’re so far from that. Look at you! It could be years.”

He shakes his head. “Not years, no. Do you think I would do this lightly? I’ve given it a lot of thought. All of the angles, keeping in mind my kids, my insurance, the business, everything. This is the best time.”

And suddenly I understand. “Things go better if you don’t die of the disease.”

“Yes.”

We put it away for the time being. We have our dinner. It is delicious in addition to being pretentious. Afterward we walk hand-in-hand down Robson Street, stopping to watch street performers. He asks if I want my fortune told by an old woman who is reading tarot cards at a table she has set up outside Muji. I decline. I understand that there is nothing in the future that I need or want to know.

That night we make love with a new ferocity. We are clinging to something that can’t be held, that’s how it feels.

I wake to strong sunlight and the call of seagulls. I get up before he does and pull the pieces of myself together. Then I pack my things. It doesn’t take long.

He wakes as I head for the door.

“Will I see you again?” he calls, his voice sounding suddenly weaker. Not from illness, I’m sure of that. But from something that wrenches my heart.

I don’t answer, as I leave his key on the sideboard next to the sculpture in the hall. What is there really to say?

I go to the airport. Get a rental. I only need it for a few hours. I park it safely, my stuff neatly in the trunk. I head out on foot to find what I need. It doesn’t take long. The car is long and old and perfect for my needs. It is solid, like a tree, and the ignition is broken easily.

From the time I sight the car to when I start it with a screwdriver is under five minutes and then I’m gliding around in a full-sized piece of Detroit steel that was old enough to vote before I was.

I don’t wait long outside his office. I know I’ve timed things well. We haven’t known each other long, but I have a handle on his routine and so I idle the big car down the block. Lying in wait.

When he emerges from the building, I try not to analyze the firmness of his step or the jut of his chin, the tilt of his head. I try not to think about how he is feeling. Is this a good day for him or bad? Is he in pain? Has he said all his goodbyes?

I follow him for three blocks before I see the right moment to approach. I wonder if he feels the shadow or the ghost of me, but I discard the thought. It is fanciful, and I have no place for that here.

I begin to accelerate as his feet leave the curb. I admire again the spring in his step, the length of his stride.

He is in the middle of the intersection as I reach him. It happens very fast.

Saturna Island by Timothy Taylor

Eight Game-Changing Tips on Public Speaking by Sheena Kamal

The Perfect Playgroup by Robin Spano

West Vancouver

Sage is more fabulous dead than alive. West Vancouver’s finest boutique mortician has selected jeans, summer heels, and a silk tank, for a look of understated elegance. The look she sported when I met her, when she lured me into her web of lies that ended with a vial of poison in my hand.

We’re in Whole Foods with our daughters, both one and a half. Sage and her blond-ringleted Emmaline share a kale smoothie while I struggle to keep Hannah from smearing mac and cheese all over her face. Sage is dressed down today, in five-hundred-dollar riding boots and organic green leggings. I’m dressed up, in jeans and my polo shirt from Costco.

Our tables are adjacent. Her shopping cart is filled to the brim with organic goodness. Mine has the discounted family meal, the Wednesday special where your family can get fat for twenty dollars. I wouldn’t normally talk to someone so perfect, but Hannah shouts, “Hi!” and Emmaline giggles, and soon we’re chatting gaily as rain pounds the two-story windows.

“There’s a fundraiser on Saturday.” She fishes a flier from her Coach diaper bag. “My friends and I are hosting. Proceeds send underprivileged kids to camp.”

“That sounds worthy.” Does the rip in Hannah’s raincoat make it obvious we’d qualify?

“The event’s sold out but I have an extra seat at my table. No charge. If your husband doesn’t mind watching Hannah for a night, it could be fun, right?”

Husband. Yeah. I’d have better luck asking the grumpy Polish lady who used to clean his parents’ house. They fired her when we moved into their boathouse last month. Now it’s my job to scrub their toilets in lieu of rent. The upside? We get to raise Hannah in a neighborhood where all her little friends will have weekly allowances bigger than her parents’ net worth.

“Why me?” I say.

“Why not? You’re a mom. You seem like a good one, which means you need a break. Have you had a night out since Hannah was born?”

I snort.

“But your husband has, right?”

“Of course.”

“So this is fair. It’s also free and fun. Say yes.”

I search for excuses. “None of my dresses fit since pregnancy.”

“Come raid my wardrobe.” Sage toys with the hem of her shirt. “I gave up and bought all new clothes after Emmaline. Stroller fitness, mom and baby yoga, and thousands of dollars in pelvic floor physio won’t budge my annoying potbelly.”

I laugh. “It’s a generous offer, but your entire body could fit into one leg of my jeans.”

“Not true! But there’s a designer in Dundarave who’s been brilliant for my postpartum body. Emmaline and I could play with Hannah while you try on dresses.”

“Hannah won’t stay with a stranger.”

“Sure she will.” Sage smiles at Hannah’s cheesy cheeks, holds her arms out like she wants a hug.

Hannah shocks me by reaching for Sage.

Skinny women in artistic dresses mingle under the Happy Campers banner, their men standing by in tailored dark suits with bold ties. I want to slink back to the bus stop, but retreating home won’t make me feel more significant. When I asked Jake if I looked okay in the first dress I’ve worn in two years, he glanced briefly away from his keyboard and said, “You look fine.” He’s watching Hannah, at least. Meaning he’s working on his novel while she empties every drawer in the boathouse.

I’m about to find a bathroom when Sage grips my arm.

“You look supremely hot in that dress.”

I feel like an elephant among the gazelles, but I remind myself I’m only five pounds up from prepregnancy — it’s just all distributed in a jiggly balloon around my stomach.

At the silent-auction table, she introduces me to Jenna and Misty.

“We’re bidding things up,” Jenna says.

“Only items we want. Like wine.”

“And weekends at Whistler.”

“And wine.” Misty pirouettes to face me. “What are you going after?”

Sage slaps Misty’s hand. “Let her swallow a drink before you reach for her wallet.”

Ugh. Of course. I have to bid or I’ll look like a freeloader. But I maxed out my MasterCard to buy the little red dress I’m wearing. The tag is tucked into my bra and it’s going back on Monday.

I scribble my name on bid sheets. Lowballs only, items I’ll never win because the night’s still so young.

“So what do you do with your daughter around town?” Jenna asks. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at music class or Playmania or anywhere.”

“Um, we’ve done Mother Goose and Strong Start.” The free stuff. “What do you guys do?”

I expect the answer to include aquarium memberships and ski passes at Cypress. But Misty says, “We’re outside every day. We explore beaches, hike the mountains. Last week we did a collaborative art project at Lighthouse Park using mud, rocks, and sticks.”

“We make up songs as we go,” Jenna says. “And Sage does snacks like no mom I’ve ever seen.”

Hannah would love that life. I feel guilty that I’ve been barely treading water, that most days we don’t make it out of the house until it’s too late for anything but rushed errands.

“Have you met Tommy?” Sage drags a man into the circle. His suit is probably worth three grand, but the stubble on his face says that doesn’t make him special. “He’s the hired help.”

“Please.” Tommy’s laugh is so infectious that I find myself smiling along with him. “Sage wishes I was hired help. I’m playing sax in the orchestra, but I’m donating my time so she doesn’t think she can order me around.” He reaches a hand to shake mine, his grip firm and friendly. “She tells me we have lots in common.”

I’m about to say she doesn’t even know me, but I’ll turn back into Cinderella soon enough, so I might as well enjoy the ball. I flash my most mysterious smile and we chat until his next set.

“You know who that was, right?” Jenna says when Tommy leaves. “Thomas Townsend. Owns half the North Shore, plus the hockey team.”

My mouth falls open. “He’s playing sax in the orchestra?”

“Sage’s husband saved him a fortune in his divorce. Still had to pay his ex thirty mil.”

“Ouch.”

Jenna shrugs. “All that matters is he’s single.”

“Oh, I thought you were married.”

The look she shoots me tells me that’s the squarest thing I might have uttered but she finds it adorable. “It’s you he likes.”

Bidding closes. I’m alarmed to learn I’ve won a basket of organic dog treats. For sixty-five dollars. I don’t own a dog. I could kick myself, because my credit card will be declined, and these women will think I’m a fraud and a mooch and a complete waste of time, and Hannah won’t be invited on any of those cool adventure playdates.

In the cashier’s line, Jenna and Misty trip over each other as they place one bag of wine after another onto their arms like bangle bracelets.

I pass my paddle to the cashier, prepare my best look of shock for when my credit card fails, but then Sage hands me an oversized bag and says, “My treat.”

I peer inside and it’s the dog treats.

“What? You didn’t have to—”

“I wouldn’t be so generous if you’d won the Alaskan cruise. Come on, let’s go.”

Wine from the fundraiser makes our mattress feel like a bouncy castle. I roll on top of Jake for the first time in forever, tease pleasure out of him as if he were still the edgy beat poet performing in the club where I bartended. I close my eyes and picture Tommy in his suit, our silly banter, the stupid grin we shared the whole ten minutes we talked. Jake responds with confused compliance, gets off, and goes back to sleep, but in the morning when I make his coffee, he replies with a full-body hug, an arm that lingers around my waist and tells me all is not dead between us.

Hannah and I ride the bus to John Lawson Park. Sage and her friends take a bar class nearby with childcare. They hit the playground after, rain or shine.

“I read this article,” Sage says. “Kids who play outdoors in bad weather approach problem-solving with more confidence than if they’re taught to avoid the elements.”

Emmaline looks like she’d rather be inside playing princesses, but Hannah races to the climbing apparatus. She’s the first to soak her jeans going down the slide.

“Is Hannah allowed chocolate?” Sage pats her pocket. “Chili-flavored, extra dark. I’m intent on Emmaline enjoying full flavors.”

“Wow. You give parenting wicked flair,” I say. “I’ve been too busy feeling overwhelmed.”

“Because children are designed to break us.” Sage laughs. “The sleepless nights, the freedom lost, the adoring husbands who turn into selfish jerks after childbirth. It’s why mom friends are a lifeline, more essential than air some days.”

I bite my lip. My friends and family are two thousand miles away. My only lifeline is Jake, and he’d rather talk to his fictional characters.

“The cool thing about being broken, though, is that when we rebuild ourselves, we can be as creative as we like. Join us at my house tomorrow. I’ve had fun designing Emmaline’s playroom.”

I’m like an orphan from a movie, my face pressed against the rain-streaked funeral home window. Inside, Misty and Jenna make frequent trips to the champagne table. Tommy stands stoically, nodding, not saying much. A man who I assume is Sage’s husband shakes everyone’s hand with an air of bereaved self-importance.

Hannah’s in her stroller, talking to her bear while she waits for our walk to continue. I’ve been letting her sleep with me since I was released on bail. She nestles in and makes me forget that it’s all going to shit in a week or two, when the verdict comes in.

I could plea bargain if I admit to what I’ve done, serve fifteen years instead of twenty-five. But either way, I’ll be in custody until Hannah is old enough to hate me. I’d rather let the trial linger, have more of these long nights with rain pounding the boathouse roof, her soft little body pressed into mine.

Sage’s butler lets us in. Hannah and I drip muddy rainwater onto the pristine hardwood floor. We’re shown to a bedroom where dry clothes are waiting. It breaks my heart how cherub-like Hannah looks in Emmaline’s Desigual tunic. For me, there’s Lululemon. For the first time since I returned that red dress, I like the way my body looks in clothes.

The butler raps softly and leads us to an enormous playroom overlooking the stormy whitecaps of the Georgia Strait.

“We built into the cliff,” Sage says. “We carved grooves in the rock wall for Emmaline to climb. We’ve planed down jagged edges and the floor mat is padded so when she falls it’s no big deal. A few bumps and scrapes are good, though. Teaches respect for the elements.”

Hannah toddle-runs to join the other kids. After observing for maybe five seconds, she tries to scale the wall herself. Emmaline hangs back, mouth open. When Hannah successfully climbs three footholds, Emmaline claps with delight.

“She’s never put a foot on it herself.” Sage sighs. “Maybe Hannah can encourage her sense of adventure.”

“Maybe Emmaline can temper Hannah’s,” I say with an awkward laugh. “Thanks for the dry clothes. I’ll try to keep her from playing too rough in them.”

“No way. Kids should play as rough as they like. Emmaline has too many clothes anyway. I can barely stuff her drawers shut.” She sips matcha tea. “Funny how your kid is dark and mine is fair, huh? Yours bold, mine timid. It’s like they were swapped at birth.”

I say nothing, because Hannah suits me right down to her core.

“Tommy asked about you,” she says.

“What did he want to know?”

“If you’re available.”

I try to stifle the flutter, but a stupid grin betrays me. “Well, I woke up to my husband’s breakfast dishes in the sink, so if he calls today, I’m wide open.”

Jenna and Misty laugh. Sage says, “Is that a yes or a no?”

“No. He’s delicious, but I’m married.”

The housekeeper arrives with a tray of Indian food. The kids sit around Emmaline’s play table — including Hannah, who has never sat still to eat, ever — and the moms take turns putting curried dahl and butter chicken onto plastic plates. There’s nothing Hannah will eat, but I select a couple innocuous-looking morsels for her. She examines a samosa with her tongue. Wrinkles her nose, takes a tiny bite. Chews thoughtfully. Takes another bite.

Sage beams. “Hunger is key. Run them around, they’ll work up an appetite for anything.”

“Especially for napping.” Jenna reclines in her lounge chair. “A.k.a. spa rejuvenation for the afternoon shift. The instant my son goes down, I hit the Jacuzzi with wine and Netflix. What do you do when Hannah naps?”

I frown. I can’t say I polish my in-laws’ silver for dinners that don’t include me. I didn’t contradict Sage when she dropped me off after the fundraiser and assumed I lived in the big house. How much longer before they figure out I’m not qualified to play with them?

I think of Toronto, the three of us in the duplex, how I cherished Hannah’s naps even with dirty laundry piled around me. “I read trashy best sellers, drink an endless mug of tea, and eat too much dark chocolate.”

“What are you reading now?” Sage asks.

“The Help,” I say, because it seems less of a lie if I’m living it.

Another night out. A house concert at Sage’s neighbor’s. It’s a jazz trio from Montreal, I think they’re almost famous. They work the tap-pelt-tap of the rain against the solarium into the rhythm of their songs.

In the intermission, we spill onto the covered patio with a bottle of wine. Tommy’s cracking jokes with men in suits. I avoid eye contact. I don’t want to presume familiarity after one conversation. Also my dress. It’s passable, a Diane von Furstenberg I scored for twelve bucks at the Salvation Army, but I feel like the plain cousin of the princess he met at the ball.

A tap on my shoulder. “Win anything good at the fundraiser?”

I spin to face Tommy, my shoulder on fire from his touch. “Dog treats,” I say. “Would you like them? I don’t have a dog.”

“Sure. I won a yachting adventure. You like boats?”

“I love boats. But Hannah—” I instantly feel stupid. He wasn’t inviting me, just asked if I like boats. I recover with, “We haven’t taken her boating yet.”

“Is your husband into boating?”

“Are you kidding? He can’t spare the precious time from the characters inside his computer.” I should shut up. I don’t know why I’m being so blunt. “He’s a writer.”

“Anyone I’ve heard of?”

I mumble, “Jake Carruthers.”

“The Giller winner? Does Sage know?”

“No.”

“She’ll go ape. When she read Rebecca’s Room, it was all she could talk about for months.”

He lights a joint and passes it to me. As our fingertips touch, electricity shoots through my arm and down to the place I didn’t think had any electricity left. I take a puff and feel the beat of the rain against the gazebo roof. I haven’t felt this free since summer camp.

A shout from inside tells us intermission is over.

The second set is better than the first. I can see notes from each instrument float through the air, the smooth double bass, the lively piano, the melancholy saxophone. Tommy’s beside me on the couch. It’s only his leg pressed into mine, but it’s enough.

He walks us to Sage’s door. The others go in for a nightcap and he says, “I’m not going to kiss you. I hate to wreck a home.”

“Good,” I say. Because all my impulses urge my lips toward his, but it would be the end of everything.

The bus driver makes an aggro face when I ask him to lower the ramp for Hannah’s stroller. I’d like to ask why he’s too important to perform the entire scope of his job description, but I’m breaking bail. I can’t afford to be memorable.

We’re going on a little trip, Hannah and I. A ferry to Nanaimo and then up, up, up the island until we find our remote haven, a town with bad cell service and a diner where I can work for cash, where Hannah can get dirt in her toenails and slurp popsicles and it can be the two of us against the world.

Except I won’t raise her to be against the world. She will firmly own a place in it, as much as Emmaline.

“Tommy told me who your husband is.” Sage winks as we arrive at Gleneagles for music class. Jake’s parents sprung for the ten-week course, so I’m less bitter about dusting their ugly art collection. “You’re so modest, I can’t believe you haven’t said a word.”

I unbundle Hannah. I bought her an adorable Hatley raincoat secondhand. Five bucks. No rips. Bought myself some lightly used Lulu too, so we’re a snazzy West Van duo.

“I’ve heard artists are impossible to live with. What’s he working on?”

“He calls it a love story.”

“Are you still in love with him?”

Hannah is busy chasing Jenna’s son around the music room. I glance to make sure she’s out of earshot. “I love who he was in Toronto. I loved bartending on Bloor Street and walking home to our duplex apartment in the Annex, his hair a sexy mess because he hadn’t left his desk the whole time I’d been out.”

“Why did you move west?”

I smooth my hand along the dirty carpet. I want the teacher to arrive, the hello song to start. “Jake’s parents are here. We wanted Hannah to be close to her grandparents.”

“You live with them?” She puts two and two together real quick.

“We’re staying in their boathouse while we look for a place of our own.”

Sage nods. “The boathouse. I like it. Rebecca’s Room.”

“I’ll tell him you loved his book. It will make his day.”

“Can I tell him myself?” Her eyes sparkle. “Come for dinner on Saturday.”

“My husband’s in Tokyo,” Sage says as the butler hangs our coats. “I asked Tommy to stand in.”

Tommy grins from the couch, raises his beer in salute. The cheesiest smile plasters itself onto my face and won’t leave.

Sage touches Jake’s shoulder. “I want to show you the library.”

We use the library for story time, the round white room, twenty feet high of reclaimed wood bookshelves with a dome skylight and sliding ladder. There’s a mezzanine with beanbag chairs where Sage reads The Gruffalo and Corduroy with dynamic dramatization. She was an actor before she had Emmaline. Not famous, but I remember a Tide commercial she was in.

Jake whistles. He suddenly doesn’t seem so annoyed to be away from his computer tonight.

“See the desk? You can write there if you ever need a change of scenery.”

“No shit?” Jake’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I’d be honored. Jake Carruthers working between these walls.”

I leave to put Hannah to sleep in the spare crib. As I sing her a lullaby, I try to forget that Jake finds brunettes sexier than blondes, that Sage has everything to offer and I have nothing left to give.

The Amber Alert comes while we’re exploring the upper deck of the ferry. The photo: Hannah beaming from the top of Sage’s rock wall. The message: Hannah Carruthers, twenty months, possibly traveling with her mother, a murder suspect out on bail. A description of us that includes what we’re wearing right now.

I hurl my phone into the Georgia Strait. If they’re tracking it, they’ll know we boarded the boat.

Sage’s wine cellar could be in a magazine. There’s a long dinner table, a full-service bar, and a lounge with comfy seating. She opens the dumbwaiter and presents four plates with one scallop each.

“An amuse-bouche. Qualicum Beach scallops in a white wine marijuana butter sauce.”

“I’ll skip this course,” I say. “I can’t be a mess if Hannah needs me.”

“Maria has the girls covered.” Sage air-swats my concern. “She has bottles, books, she knows a million lullabies.”

Jake squeezes my hand. “Let’s get our life back.”

He’s right. I need to chill. I spear my scallop and let the butter melt on my tongue. It’s more exquisite still for the pinot gris Sage pairs it with.

Jake eyes up Tommy. “So you’re the man, hey?”

Tommy grins like he doesn’t understand the question.

“The sports team, the car dealership, the high-rises. No one can touch you.”

I stroke Jake’s hand to help him loosen up, to not be insecure, to enjoy his meal and not spoil the friendship that has opened new worlds for Hannah.

Tommy shakes his head. “There’s tons of richer guys than me. What no one can touch is your talent. I read Rebecca’s Room last year. Your Manderley was even better than duMaurier’s.”

Jake’s hand relaxes. I melt into him and the couch and it reminds me of the easy days when we drank beer and watched Netflix with takeout. Before Hannah entered screaming, forcing us to claw for our fair share of showers and sleep like rivals on a game show called Who’s Got the Time? I watch Tommy in his club chair, a linebacker’s body with a mind I’m dying to penetrate. I want to combine them into one perfect human, and I want them separately, naked, with all their flaws.

The dumbwaiter chimes. Sage unveils a tray of salmon skewers. “Haida Gwaii spring, seared rare.” She pairs it with a BC pinot noir, and I don’t remember my mouth ever feeling so satisfied.

“Who likes drinking games?” says Sage. “We’ll start light. Never Have I Ever.”

I roll my eyes. The game where everyone’s thrilled to cop to every risqué thing they’ve done since they were twelve. Jake hates it more than I do, but he leans forward and says, “I love games.”

Tame questions go around, things we easily drink to or laugh when someone doesn’t. On Sage’s fourth turn, she says, “Never have I ever had group sex.”

Jake and I share a grin that remembers our old life, patios rolling into booze cans rolling into random apartments. We drink. So do Sage and Tommy.

“Well now. Time to amp up.” Sage takes a sushi platter from the dumbwaiter and sets the salmon tray inside with our used plates. “Truth or Dare.”

Tommy groans. “Are normal dinner parties even possible with you?”

“Only when my boring husband is in town.” She pours sake into ceramic cups. “Just for asking, Tommy, you’re first. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

She dares him to kiss me.

I look at Jake, who shrugs. “I’m game if you are.”

Tommy’s lips don’t linger, but the split-second they’re on mine is electric.

“Quid pro quo,” says Tommy. “I dare Sage to kiss Jake.”

She sidles up to Jake and plants a full but quick kiss onto his lips. His eyebrows shoot up and I can tell he liked it. A lot.

In the morning, the housekeeper wakes Jake and me up with coffee and a pajama-clad Hannah. We cuddle Hannah in bed for ten full minutes, soaking our little family in.

“We needed this.” Jake strokes my cheek and gives me a kiss that lasts until Hannah breaks it up.

When we see Tommy in the foyer, it’s awkward but delicious, like in college after you sleep with a jock you might never go home with again, but you want to savor your wild side a few minutes longer before you return to the science lab.

Jake leaves to use the washroom and Tommy says, “Last night, I felt like we were tandem paragliding, you and me. I forgot there was anyone else in the room.”

I zip Hannah into her raincoat.

“Can we do this again?” he whispers. “Just the two of us?”

I shake my head. “I’m married. Alone would be cheating.”

“You like Sage,” I say to Jake when Hannah goes down for her nap.

“She’s hot.”

“Are you going to work in her library?”

“Do you mind?”

I picture Sage popping in with midmorning snacks, twirling in micro shorts, asking if there’s anything he needs. But we said we’d never be that couple, the petty jealous type who hold each other back. We even wrote, If you love something, set it free, into our marriage vows. So I say, “If you need a creative shift, go for it.”

“You’re the best. I’m getting stifled in the boathouse.”

I run my finger along his cock, stroke it a while before taking it into my mouth, because if I’m going to set him free, I’d better give him reason to come home. His sighs mix with the thunder and I lap my tongue to the rhythm of the rain.

“This is paradise,” he says, and my grip tightens because of course this is paradise for him. He gets to write all day and ignore his daughter, and his wife makes his lattes and gives him blow jobs and irons his father’s shirts so he can have this writing space by the sea, and if that’s not fucking good enough, he can write in the library of a hot mom nearby and fuck her if he wants to because everyone in his life is just so. Damn. Cool.

“That library is the bomb.” Jake shakes out his umbrella at the boathouse door. “This week alone, I resolved three plot points that have been snagging me for months.”

“Good.” I stir the bolognese and pour him a glass of the cheap Italian red we both like. “I like when you’re creatively satisfied.”

He slips an arm around my waist. “When Emmaline goes to bed, I want to creatively satisfy you.”

“Emmaline?” I say.

“Shit. I mean Hannah.”

We have the Horseshoe Bay playground to ourselves. Just us and the crows.

Emmaline is fussing. She doesn’t want to ride the wet swings, won’t eat the cut veggies Sage packed.

Hannah taps our diaper bag and asks for an applesauce pouch. Before I realize what’s happening, she marches it over to Emmaline.

“No, Hannah!” I shout as Emmaline slurps the whole pouch down.

“It’s okay.” Sage grabs the empty package and scans the ingredient list. “Hannah was being sweet. It’s just, if Em gets a taste for processed food... and it’s sweetened with apple juice, which is basically sugar...”

Jenna rummages through her snack bag. “I guess she won’t want homemade hummus after fruit juice.”

“Oh relax, you guys,” Misty says with a laugh. “Look how happy Emmaline is now.”

“Because of sugar. She’ll crash soon.” Sage shakes her head. “I’m not mad. It’s just...”

A week or so later, Hannah and I have a chill day, so I pack a picnic and we walk to Whytecliff Park. She falls asleep in her stroller, which means I should go home and vacuum the drapes. But I’m feeling rebellious. Let Jake earn our rent for a change.

Sage’s Tesla is in the parking lot. I glance in the window and it slams me all at once.

Sage and Jake. Necking like teenagers. I slink away before they see me.

I push Hannah toward home, the hour’s walk made twice as long when she wakes up and demands release. She splashes along beside me, holds my hand and half-sings songs from music class. I pay enough attention to keep her safe from cars and headed generally forward, but the rest of my mind is stuck in the back of that Tesla.

I could leave Jake, get a job bartending, and try to find a crummy apartment with whatever money’s left after childcare. Or I could make the best of this fucked-up situation, put in my two hours of housework for a free ride in what most people in the world would call paradise.

By the time I reach the boathouse, I’ve decided to say nothing. Hannah’s thriving with her new friends. Jake reads with her now, even took her to the park the other morning. Before I met Sage, I was trapped inside my own Cinderella story. She waved her wand and everything is better. So what if she wants to share my prince?

And there’s another perk. I text Tommy: Tandem paragliding?

I drag Hannah to the ladies’ room handicap stall. The ferry’s rocking, but I manage to apply colored hairspray until her dark mop is blonder than Emmaline’s. I spray mine gray to look like I’m her grandmother. A quick change of clothes and we’re no longer the people in the Amber Alert.

I try to load her into the stroller but she clings to me, screams when I try to set her down.

We’ll ditch the stroller. In case the bus driver remembers.

I clutch Hannah’s hand and lead her to the gangplank.

The rain breaks, and Sage invites us for playgroup on her boat. Except when I arrive at the yacht club with Hannah, only Sage and Emmaline are waiting.

“Jenna and Misty couldn’t make it. But we’ll have a fun foursome with our daughters.”

She skippers like a pro. Of course she has the perfect outfit, wide blue-and-white stripes and an adorable captain’s hat.

She cuts the engine in a calm bay, puts the girls down for a nap below deck. She returns with a bottle of white and a thumbs-up.

After we’ve shared half the bottle, I say, “Jake’s cheating on me.”

“No!” Her eyes grow huge. “He seems so into you, and you give him all the freedom in the world. Why would he cheat?”

“It’s fine.” I’m sure my laugh sounds contrived. “Frees me up to play with Tommy.”

“Oh my.” Sage’s eyebrows lift. “Have I created a monster?”

“I don’t know. Did you create this?”

“I dragged you up from a life that was clearly no fun.” Her smile gives way, showing a crack of a sneer underneath.

I refill our glasses, draining the bottle. “Why did you invite me out alone?”

“Because it’s time,” Sage says, no pretense left. “Time to give Jake up. He’s mine. We’ve both known for a while.”

“We can share him.”

“I don’t think so.”

She shoves a vial into my hand. I frown and turn it over. There’s no label, nothing to indicate what the ounce or so of liquid is.

“I learned everything about him after I read Rebecca’s Room. It was clear on every page that he wrote it for me.”

I push my wine away. “Most readers say that with fan mail.”

“I wanted his daughter to play with mine. I wanted him to see what a good mother I am so I could replace you.”

Replace me?

“I read about you being swinging singles back in the day, a regular Toronto Scott and Zelda. I knew that was my easiest way in.”

I tap the vial. “What’s in this?”

“You love Hannah so much, you should give her the life I’m offering. She can have the room next to Emmaline’s. She can go to any school, any summer camp, any international exchange. She’ll have the very best chance to be strong enough to take on this sad and crazy world.”

“Are you telling me to kill myself?”

“Might be easier than watching your daughter grow up without you.”

“Why would she grow up without me?”

“Read Jake’s love story for the full answer.”

“He never lets anyone read before his editor.”

Sage cocks an eyebrow. “He let me.”

“That’s not...” I don’t finish the sentence because it’s impossible to accept that Jake let Sage read before me. “Jake can do what he likes, but Hannah stays with me.”

“We’ll let the courts decide, shall we? When Jake moves in with me, he’ll have a fixed address. They’ll award him initial custody. You’ll have to fight to get her back, and I’ll make sure that never happens.”

“The court won’t just give you my daughter.”

“Courts can be bought like anything else. Plus, I have footage of you stoned and drunk and fucking Tommy.”

“Jake d-doesn’t know what Hannah eats for breakfast,” I stammer. “He wouldn’t want full custody.”

“He wants me to be happy.” Sage sighs, a contented cat with nothing left to wish for. “I’ve always wanted two daughters, but Emmaline’s birth was atrocious and I can’t have more. I told Jake he should spend more time with Hannah. Take her to the park, read books with her. I got a great photo of them together on the tire swing.”

Of course. It was too good to be true, Jake wanting to be a better parent spontaneously.

“He agreed to let me tell you. He’s a coward that way. Can’t stand conflict.”

It’s true. Jake couldn’t even fire his first agent. He sent me to their coffee meeting to do it for him.

“He’s packing now,” says Sage. “He’ll be moved into my house by the time we’re back to shore.”

“What about your husband?”

“He’ll keep our New York and Hong Kong apartments. He barely has any business in Vancouver anymore. Honestly, I think he’s relieved.” She stands up to go get us another bottle of wine.

I study the yacht’s control panel. A steering wheel, a gear shift — forward, neutral, reverse. I might give it a few knocks while docking, but I could get the girls safely back to shore.

I picture Hannah growing up in that house. Jake, loving but distant. Sage, disturbed beyond belief.

When Sage turns away, I grab the wine bottle and crash it into the back of her head. She yelps and crumples to the floor. I lift her tiny body over the edge. The water is a thousand feet deep, according to the dashboard GPS. She’ll drown before she comes to.

I’m nearly back at Eagle Harbour when a police boat pulls up beside me. Over the megaphone, they instruct me to cut my engine and allow them to board.

The female officer finds Sage’s phone mounted to the dash. “Didn’t know you were being broadcast?”

In my stomach, I know what’s happened. She wanted to die. Jake might have fucked her senseless, he might have taken her advice to spend more time with Hannah, but he rejected her invitation to a brand-new life. I had what she wanted, what she truly thought was hers, and she needed to take me down with her.

“Our children — they’re sleeping below deck.” I realize with a thud that Sage put them down. If anything happened to Hannah—

I exhale with relief when the officers carry up a groggy Hannah, followed by an equally alive Emmaline.

“Mama?” Hannah reaches for a hug but my hands are cuffed behind me.

Police are waiting in Nanaimo, scrutinizing foot passengers as we enter the terminal.

A tap on my arm. “Could you and the girl step aside?”

The vial digs against my hip.

A few others are pulled aside. Moms mutter, annoyed for the delay. Kids are fussing. Hannah’s enjoying the action, pointing out every dog, every baby, every boat.

They’re checking ID. We could slip under the rope, but I wouldn’t get far carrying Hannah. And without her, what’s the point?

I slide two fingers into my pocket, roll the vial between them.

“You’ll be okay.” I stroke Hannah’s hair, try to match her grin as she pokes my nose. “Your father will rise to the occasion, or close enough.”

One cop won’t take his eyes from me, speaks low into his radio.

I unscrew the cap, draw the vial to my nose. Bitter almond.

“Your grandparents will pay for an excellent education.”

Three other cops circle, staring at Hannah and me.

It would be so easy to swallow, to erase twenty-five years of sporadic prison visits, erase the decades after release when she might meet me for the odd coffee but mostly make excuses for why she doesn’t need me in her life. Or in her children’s.

I brush hair out of her eyes. She’ll need a cut soon. “You just have to stay confident, stay kind, make good friends, true friends who adore you for who you are.”

I tip the vial back. She’ll have to navigate her teen years without me.

But what if our prison visits go well, and I say even one thing that helps?

I’m about to dump the liquid on the floor when Hannah taps the vial, knocking the contents down my throat.

The circle tightens. An officer has handcuffs out.

I slump to the ground, clutching Hannah to protect her from the fall as I fade from consciousness. I whisper in her ear, “It’s okay, munchkin. You’ll be strong. You’ll be loving. You’ll be...”