Make me an instrument of your truth, Jane prayed. It was a desire that stayed consistent, past or present.
Perhaps there were some things that stayed the same, after all.
CHAPTER 1
Savannah Mast
December 23, 2016
Oakland, California
The countdown was on. In one week, Ryan and I would be at our wedding rehearsal at Grace Cathedral, getting ready for our New Year’s Eve wedding the next day. Dreams did come true. I’d soon be Savannah Woodward instead of Savannah Mast.
I pushed away from my desk and stepped to my office window, gazing out toward the Bay Bridge. It wasn’t that I had a view, just a glimpse of the ribbon of asphalt lanes suspended over the water. Just enough to encourage me to leave and head to San Francisco for the rest of the afternoon. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and my boss, Mr. William Hayes, had already left an hour ago.
I worked as a manager for a nonprofit health company, mostly guiding my team in their attempts to control costs, while Ryan worked across the Bay at the medical center as an administrator in the information systems department. He was on track, according to some, to become a vice president of the organization.
After stuffing my wedding to-do list in my bag, I sent Ryan a text. On my way! Then I slipped into my raincoat and straightened it over my skirt and blouse. As the heels of my boots clicked down the hallway, my phone pinged.
Wait, Ryan had replied.
What did he mean? Surely, he wasn’t having a last-minute meeting.
Why? I texted back.
Something’s come up. . . .
The ellipses gave me an ominous feeling. Is everything all right? I typed.
I waited in the hallway for him to reply. I was getting worried. Finally, I texted, Ryan?
When he still didn’t reply, I took the elevator down to the street level, pulled up my hood against the December drizzle, and walked the six blocks to my apartment. I hoped Ryan would text back soon. Perhaps a system server was down, or the electronic charting software had crashed. Or the pharmacies had gone offline.
I sidestepped a thirtysomething woman wearing a rain poncho and a beanie, panhandling on the corner, and then dodged two men wearing designer suits who were deep in conversation.
Oakland was home to all kinds. I’d enjoyed my time in the city on the east side of the Bay but looked forward to living across the water. My father had been horrified—even more so than when I enrolled at UCLA—when I moved to Oakland. He still remembered how it had been in the late eighties, when he first moved to Northern California from Indiana. He remembered the crime, the drug trafficking, the robberies, the killings.
It wasn’t that there wasn’t still crime in Oakland—there was in any big city—but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. Like many other places on the West Coast, it was being gentrified, which meant housing costs had skyrocketed. Hardly anyone could afford rent in the area anymore, a horrible affront to those who used to call Oakland home.
I reached my building, a brick three-story complex, and walked up the staircase to the second floor. After digging my keys from my bag, I unlocked the door as I checked my phone again. Still no text from Ryan.
I turned on the lights, pulled the blinds against the darkness falling outside, took off my raincoat, and placed my bag on a chair. I unzipped my boots, feeling a little lost with the recent change of plans. Should I put on my sweats? Or stay in my skirt?
I pulled off my boots and stepped into my fuzzy slippers. Then I checked my phone again. It was now 4:50. It had been thirty minutes since Ryan texted me last. Even with an emergency, it wasn’t like him to not respond.
Something’s come up. . . . What did he mean by that?
I held my phone in the palm of my hand, weighing my options. I sent him another text. Can you talk?
He didn’t answer that one either, so ten minutes later, after I changed into my sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, I called him. He didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail, trying to sound as upbeat as possible. “Hey, I hope everything’s okay. Call me ASAP.”
I dropped my phone on the couch and sat down to watch HGTV, barely concentrating on the Love It or List It episode. Every few minutes, I checked my phone. No text. No call. No nothing. An hour later, I called Ryan again.
Just as I expected it to go into voicemail, someone picked up. “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.
“Hello,” I managed to say. “I need to talk to Ryan.”
“With whom am I speaking?” she asked.
I stuttered out, “Sa-van-nah. And with whom am I speaking?”
She laughed. “Guess.”
I stifled a gasp. It was Amber. His ex. Why was she in town?
And she obviously knew it was me. My picture would have come up on the screen when she answered the call.
She called out, “Ryan. Phone!”
After a long pause, she said, “Sorry, he can’t talk right now. He’ll call you back.”
My heart raced as the call disconnected. What was going on?
UNABLE TO EAT or sleep, I stared at the TV for the next six hours, along with bombing Ryan with texts and phone calls. There hadn’t been an emergency. He was with Amber, the woman who’d dumped him three years prior. I’d met her once when she crashed a work party of Ryan’s a year ago. She had a memorable face and body—beautiful and svelte. And an unforgettable deep and sexy voice.
People seemed to either love her or hate her, and whenever her name came up, everyone went silent. She was older than
