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“To say I’m less likely to get murdered now?”
“To invite you to Thanksgiving.”
I paused. Then I said, “I can’t come to Thanksgiving, Jack.”
“Why not? Your would-be assassin is halfway to Orlando by now.”
“It’s not a good idea.”
“That’s not a real reason.”
An image of Kennedy Monroe spreading herself over Jack like he was a cake and she was his icing appeared in my head. “I think it’s best,” I said, “to make a clean break.”
“Just one day. One meal. To say a proper goodbye.”
“We already said goodbye.” I didn’t want to do it again.
“I have something to give you, though.”
And then he lowered his phone down past his famous mouth and his legendary Adam’s apple, angling the camera down and down until he stopped on his necklace. And there, just leaning against his collarbone, in remarkably sharp focus, was my safety pin.
“You found it,” I said, touching my finger to the phone screen. I’d known it, of course—but I hadn’t entirely believed it.
“I did.”
“Where was it?”
“On the beach by the river.”
“How could you find it there? That’s impossible.”
“I’m pretty good at impossible things.”
“But—how?”
“A lot of looking. And some delusional optimism.”
I’d have to revise my opinion of delusional optimism.
Jack went on. “Remember all those mornings I told you I was hitting golf balls?”
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t hitting golf balls.”
“You were looking for the safety pin?”
Jack nodded. “With my dad’s metal detector. The one my mom told him was a total waste of money.”
“That’s what was in the golf bag?”
“It sure as heck wasn’t nine irons. I can’t hit a golf ball to save my life.”
“You went down there every morning?”
“I did.”
“That’s what you were doing?”
