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parents. Her mother had insisted on this.

Kate’s law degree and her job at the firm were hard-earned. That’s why Kate was always the first in the office in the morning, and the last to leave. Her mother gave up years of her life for her daughter. Kate could not throw that away. That sacrifice drove her. Made her stay quiet. She didn’t want to rock the boat.

She thought about what her mother would say now. She wouldn’t want Kate to suffer in silence. She would want Kate to stand up for herself. All those times she kept her mouth shut in front of Levy – the shame ate through her like fire, quickly cooled and turned to something much harder.

She swore to herself right then – the next time something happened in that office she would call it out. Time’s up. No more running. No more hiding. No more biting her lip. Next time she would use her voice.

Because she was Suzanne Brooks’ daughter.

She was Kate fucking Brooks, from Edgewater, New Jersey.

Frank Avellino

Journal Entry, Friday August 31, 2018.

7:55 a.m.

I hate writing this shit. Never done it before. I’m not a man who wants to have his memoirs published. There are enough skeletons in my closet to fill a goddamn graveyard – twice. This is on doctor’s orders. This is for me only. And Doc Goodman. What the hell he expects me to write, I don’t know.

I’ve been having – lapses. It’s now eight-thirty in the a.m. I’ve been awake since four. Had to take a leak and couldn’t get back to sleep. The usual. If it’s not my prostate it’s my brain. Hal Cohen finally persuaded me to go see the doc about both. I’m on pills for the prostate, and I have to write this shit for my brain. Doc asked me some questions, which I answered, and he said I was fine. But to please him, he wanted me to write down my thoughts and any symptoms I notice. He’ll see me in a couple of months. He’ll read this shit and it’ll put him to sleep, I know it.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is nothing. Or just old age. I’ve been forgetting things lately. Pills I’m supposed to take in the evening. Sometimes I’ll be watching TV and I can’t remember if I ate dinner. Or I leave the faucet on, running hot. Missing appointments is a bugbear of mine. If I say I’m going to show up at a place, I show up at that place. No exceptions. I can’t believe I missed four meetings last week. Just forgot about them. Maybe I should hire a PA. But a PA can’t call me to remind me to put on socks. I forgot those too, last week.

Little things.

Nothing to worry about. The doc said so.

I feel fine today. No problems. I remember what I’m supposed to do, where I’m supposed to be. It’s all fine.

Now for breakfast with Hal Cohen.

11 p.m.

Alexandra came over tonight. Sweet kid. Smart. She’d been out running in the park again. I told her she shouldn’t run in the park at night. It isn’t safe for her on her own. She told me she could handle herself and I believed her. She brought me one of those smoothies I like, from the place on 2nd Avenue.

She said she’d tried calling me today. I think maybe my cell is busted. I had missed calls on that thing, but I could swear it didn’t ring. I missed the meeting with the accountant today.

Again.

Alexandra gave me my pills and told me about a deal she closed for an apartment on 13th Street and 3rd Avenue. Sweet deal. Sweet kid. Sofia called. She won’t come over when Alexandra is in the house. Those two still won’t speak to each other. I’ve given up trying. But I do wish Sofia would be more like Alexandra.

Sofia will be the death of me, someday.

I’m in bed and I don’t know if I brushed my teeth.

I saw someone today on the street. All in black. I think they were following me. I was on Park Avenue, and I saw them across the street. I suddenly couldn’t remember where I was going so I took a cab home. I talked to the cab driver about it. He said maybe I was paranoid. I said I would ask Jane about it.

When I got home I called out for Jane. Couldn’t understand why she wasn’t home.

Then I remembered.

Jane’s dead. I saw her dead on the stairs. Her neck stuck in the stair rail. Twisted and broken.

And the other thing …

Jesus.

Maybe this is a blessing? There are some things I don’t want to remember.