Page 6 of You Know Why

I used to run marathons, used to dance all night, used to be opinionated and fearless. I used to live on planes with nothing but a backpack and my Nikons. I loved and was loved in return. I’ve lived. I know what it’s like to be truly free. And I know what it’s like to be truly scared. But as with all darkness, there was always enough light to chase it away. Another sunrise to cleanse the soul and spirit.

After Roger’s death, the show fell apart. Alex and I parted ways. I started over.

As luck would have it, soon after, I met a whiskey-eyed man under a starlit sky in a haunted Mexican city called San Miguel de Allende, where I’d gone to photograph a story on the generational power of the humble tamale, and was lost. He kissed me on the trendy Luna Rooftop of the Rosewood Hotel, and I loved him immediately. Loved him before the lines turned pink, and happily married him a few weeks later. Four’s birth seven months after the wedding was met with raucous joy from us both.

Domesticity. I had been domesticated.

Not that I’d change anything. It was meant to be, me and Trey. I chose this life, happily. Chose to stop jetting all over the world, to move into lifestyle instead of travel, to settle down, to have a family. The one concession: I still use my maiden name for bylines. It keeps a foot in my old life.

If I hadn’t met Trey, would I have ever settled down? It wasn’t something I was striving toward, but it wasn’t something I was against. I knew these life events would eventually find me like a healthy lion finds a meal in the savannas. I was being hunted; being caught was inevitable. I wasn’t exactly expecting it when it happened, though.

The bottles dealt with, I wipe down the counters, then fold one last small load of laundry and tuck fresh underthings into my bag. It’s nearly two now, the house silent and dark, and I am so jazzed I know I won’t sleep. Bohdi whines, so I let him out back. The yard is fenced, and he prances around for a bit in the cold air, snapping at imaginary things. He turns toward the woods and freezes, on alert, his whole body shivering. I listen. The night is deep here, with no lights from the neighbors. The way our house sits on the lot, we’re back from the street, and the yard is very private. The only thing between us and the woods is the storm shelter, accessible only through the small chute in the eastern gate. It feels vast, though it’s only a couple of acres of land.

There is crackling, an animal of some sort stepping through the winter forest. I shift, and it stops. I can feel it staring. Can it jump the fence? There are coyotes around here, and bobcats. We are so vulnerable. We sail through our lives not thinking of the way death lingers, waiting. Perhaps you need to see death to understand how quickly it comes. Fleet footed, self-assured, impossible to avoid. It takes us whether we’re ready or not.

The cold is seeping into my bones now. The beast begins to move again, crashing away. The moment has ended, but I am left unsettled. A premonition of sorts, perhaps, that needs to be dispelled. I am traveling tomorrow—no, today. I don’t need the ghosts of my past along for the ride.

I am being morbid, I know. Thinking about Roger always makes me sad. He died in vain, a drug overdose, cocaine laced with fentanyl. We’d fought that afternoon, and he was partying that night with a vengeance that stunned the entire crew, who knew how volatile his moods were and how he liked to blow off steam. It was a raging blaze of a night, blurry for us all. It wasn’t a total shock that he did too much; that was par for the course. He had his own demons, and they caught him on occasion. The surprise was when he didn’t wake up.

So many things said in anger, and unsaid in mercy, and then he was gone. A life unfinished. A complete and total waste of an incredible talent.

Bohdi whimpers, and I call him quietly. He comes to me, making soft noises of concern. I snuggle him, warming him up in my arms, and take him to my office. There is a single lamp burning, and I put him in his bed, where he cuddles down and drifts off. Lucky dog. I’m going to miss him. He’s a sweetie.

I need to set an away message on my email, and then I will lie down for a couple of hours before I get the family up to head off on our adventure.

I open my laptop, making sure I don’t jostle the battery charger; I’m taking it along so I can work on the plane, and who knows if the chargers will work on board that long flight. I log in and set up the message on each account, then do one last sweep. In my personal email, there is a new message from an address I don’t recognize, with a blank header, and I debate not bothering. Spam, probably. If it’s important, they’ll write back.

But something compels me to open it. It is two sentences that make every hair on my body rise in fright.

We know what you did. Get us the money, or we will end this.

But what happens next is utterly baffling. The message disappears.

It’s not in my inbox; it’s not in my trash. I search for the phrase, and there’s nothing. I check my other accounts, and there’s not a hint of the message. I don’t even know what address it came from; I don’t remember anything outside of it being unfamiliar.

It’s too weird. Maybe someone unsent the message? Maybe it wasn’t meant for me at all.

That has to be it. I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s a fluke. Or maybe I’m just exhausted and seeing things. Maybe I drifted off to sleep and dreamed it? I am exhausted; it’s not impossible. I pinch myself to make sure I’m awake, and it hurts.

Okay. That was bizarre.

I pack my laptop in my bag, stow the cords in their leather wrap, and zip it all closed carefully. Then I shut off the light and leave my sweet dog twitching in his dreams.

I don’t fall asleep for a very long time.

December 12

La Dolce Vita

The morning is an absolute whirlwind. After feeding, watering, shoving a few last-minute items into our bags, including a few smaller Christmas presents—I nearly forgot—then wrangling everyone out the door in time for the car service to drop us off, I don’t get a chance to tell Trey about the weird email.

Honestly, if Trey wasn’t stepping in for Bob at this conference, there’s no way I would have agreed to move heaven and earth the way I have. But I can’t deny him the opportunity. He supports me so much, it would be churlish to do anything but go along and make things as smooth as possible for a quick departure.

By the time we arrive at the airport, I have barely slept and am beyond frazzled.

And what started as an exciting morning, the first day of our impromptu vacation, is quickly ruined by the dreaded words coming from my husband’s lips: “Babe, I think something’s wrong.”

I follow his pointed finger to the screen where we’re doing our self-check-in. Sure enough, it won’t let us; it’s saying we need to speak with an agent. We’re already running behind, and the enormous flight board above the entrance to the TSA security lines is flashing Boarding next to our flight number.