Not everyone gets to remember their own death. I don’t think you should. It’s painful to remember being murdered. Agonizing, excruciating, unbearable. Unthinkable.
A man I used to love, who clearly still loved me even after I left him, was desperate to — teach me a lesson, I suppose. I understand what made him do it, but that doesn’t mean I forgive him and it doesn’t mean I want to remember it.
Nothing makes sense out of context, I have to go back to the beginning. Changing your mind sometimes leads to unforeseen consequences.
I met Seth and Jason at the same time really, but I think of it as meeting Seth first. I was sitting in a café in New York, trying to recover from a morning of shopping before meeting my agent. My daughter, Rachel, pointed him out.
“Mom, look, over there. Seth Slate and Jason Austin.”
I glanced up briefly from my laptop, annoyed at being interrupted while writing the climatic revelation of my latest mystery novel. I tried not to take it out on Rachel, she was bored and couldn’t help it that I was too busy to entertain her. Of course adult children shouldn’t need their mothers to keep them entertained.
“Don’t stare,” I told her and tried to pick up the threads of the thoughts I had. Something about bloody fingerprints being reversed. I was nitpicking a Doyle story, almost, although I doubted anyone would notice.
“But they’re reading one of your books, Mom.”