Never Knowing

“I am happy.” And then I realized I was. I had everything I needed.

My last visitor in the hospital was the last person I expected to see. As I flipped through channels on the TV, there was a light rap on the door. I glanced over, thinking it was one of the nurses, and saw Julia standing there. She looked elegant in a white linen pantsuit. She also looked really uncomfortable.

“May I come in?”

It took me a moment to find my voice.

“Sure, of course.” I clicked off the TV. “Have a seat.” I nodded to the chair beside the bed, but she moved to stand near the window. She fiddled with one of the flowers in the vase, plucking a petal off and rolling it in her fingers. Finally she turned and said, “I haven’t spoken to you since you killed him.…” Her voice drifted off and I fought the urge to fill in the silence. Why are you here? Are you happy he’s dead? Do you still hate me?

“I wanted to thank you,” she said. “I can sleep now.” Before I could respond she met my eyes. “Katharine’s moved out.”

Not sure why she was sharing this, I said, “I’m sorry.”

Her face turned reflective. “It was easy to blame everything wrong in my life on him.”

“What he did was—”

“He’s gone now. And I see now, things I’ve done — what it did to people around me. How I pushed them away.…” Her eyes fixated on the photo on my side table. “Is this your daughter?”

“That’s Ally, yes.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“Thanks.” She was still staring at the photo when my mom came into the room with the coffee I’d asked for a few minutes ago. When she saw Julia she startled.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll come back.”

“It’s fine, Mom. Please stay.”

Julia’s face flushed and she gripped her purse. “I should go.”

I said, “Wait a second. Please.” She stiffened. “Julia, I’d like you to meet my mother, Carolyn.”

Mom looked from Julia to me and her face lit up. I gave her a smile, my eyes telling her everything I wanted to say. She smiled back.

She turned to Julia and reached out her hand. I held my breath. Julia extended hers. Mom held it for a moment with both of her hands and said, “Thank you for giving her to us.”

Julia blinked a couple of times, but she said, “You must be proud. She’s a brave young woman.”

“We’re very proud of Sara.” Mom smiled and my throat tightened.

Julia said again, “I should go.” She turned to me. “I still have my father’s woodworking tools. When you’re better you can come have a look if you like. There might be something you want.”

“Sure. That would be great.” I was as surprised by the offer as I was by the fact that my creative side might not have come from John after all.

She nodded briskly and strode out of the room.

Mom looked at me and said, “She seems nice.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“She comes across a little angry. But she reminds me of your father.”

“How are you seeing that?”

“They act angry when they’re scared.” She settled into the chair by my bed. “Do you know your father stayed by your side all last night while you slept?” She smiled, then looked back at the door Julia had just exited. “You have her hands.”

Yesterday I was making Ally breakfast and just as I served her pancakes with extra blueberries and whipped cream — I’ve been spoiling the heck out of her — I moved too fast. Ally saw me wince.

“Poor Mommy. What cheers you up when you’re sick?”

“You cheer me up.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a joke.”

My heart started to flutter.

She said in a singsong voice, “What cheers you up when you’re sick?”

I played along.

“Pickles?”

“A get wellephant card!” She dissolved into giggles.

“Where did you hear that joke?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged her little shoulders. “I like jokes.” She grinned with her gap-toothed smile, and I wanted to tell her those jokes were silly. I wanted to take any part of John that’s in her and pull it out. But as I watched her take a big bite of her pancake, her face still in smiles, I thought about a father who didn’t let his little boy tell jokes.

“I like them too, Ally.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book would not have been possible without the help of some amazing people who shared their time and knowledge. Without them, and the countless cups of tea and bowls of popcorn that were consumed during the writing of this novel, I wouldn’t have made it through. First, I’d like to thank my aunt, Dorothy Hartshorne, for brainstorming sessions and “this-or-that?” e-mails, and my uncle, Dan Hartshorne, for teaching me about firearms. Once again, a big thank-you to Renni Browne and Shannon Roberts, whose valuable feedback always takes my writing to the next level. I’m also deeply grateful to my critique partner, Carla Buckley, a true friend and a brilliant writer who keeps me cyber-company on those long, lonely days at the keyboard.

For sharing their professional expertise, I’d like to thank Constable J. Moffat, Staff Sergeant J. D. MacNeill, Doug Townsend, Dr. E. Weisenberger, Nina Evans-Locke, and Garry Rodgers, who all generously shared their time. You can be sure any mistakes are mine. Special thanks to Tamara Poppitt, who taught me about six-year-old girls; Sandy Jack, who read my first draft and let me use Eddie, her French bulldog, for inspiration; and Stephanie Paddle, who didn’t laugh when I asked strange medical questions — and trust me, they were usually strange.

A writer needs a strong support system and I’m blessed to have that in my agent, Mel Berger, who always answers my questions and epic e-mails with wit and wisdom. Graham Jaenicke also provided much-needed support and e-mail entertainment. I feel very lucky to be working with St. Martin’s Press and my editor, Jen Enderlin, whose insights are always bang on, even if I’m sometimes slow to see the light. My gratitude also to Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Lisa Senz, Sarah Goldstein, Ann Day, and Loren Jaggers. Thanks to my Canadian publicist, Lisa Winstanley, who deserves all the hamburgers in the world for her color-coded schedules.

I’d like to thank Lisa Gardner and Karin Slaughter for going above and beyond to help out a new author. Don Taylor, you’re a true gentleman. I’d also like to thank my foreign publishers, who take my vision and share it with the rest of the world. A special thanks to Cargo, who brought me to Amsterdam. I came home inspired and ready to write.

As well, I’m grateful to my friends and family who make this all worth it and who understand when I drop off the face of the earth for months. Last, but never least, my husband, Connel, my rock when the rest of the world is spinning.