The owner’s eyes widened. “You know your stuff, don’t you?”

A lot better than you know yours.

In the end, the man was willing to bargain the price down.

And he was right. The knife is a great tool.

A great tool that is now sticking out of a stranger’s abdomen.

I need to get it back. I need to get out of here.

In the distance a dog is barking.

If it’s the puppy, still running loose with a leash dangling from its collar, there’s no telling what might happen. Someone might already have found the animal; might come looking for the owner right now.

Gloves or no gloves, it’s time to act.

The knife handle is slick with blood. But with one firm tug the blade lifts right out of the man’s bleeding torso.

The morning light seems to have shifted; his eyes are visible now, focused with surprising clarity, pleading, pleading . . .

“All right. I really am sorry about this, and . . . and I’ll help you. Okay? I’ll make it easier for you.”

The man turns his head and closes his eyes as if he knows what’s coming next—as if he can’t bear to watch, or perhaps, as if making it easier for everyone, granting access by turning his neck at just the right angle for the blade to slice neatly through his jugular.

This time, blood spurts.

This time, mercifully, it’s over. No more suffering.

The dog is still barking in the distance as the knife snaps closed.

What a mess. The blade and the tortoiseshell handle are covered in blood, but that’s okay. It will wash off and be good as new.

One last thing . . .

“Here. I always carry one of these in my pocket for luck. Now . . . it’s for you. I’m sorry. Really.”

The tortoiseshell guitar pick goes into the front pocket of the man’s jeans, the one where he keeps his wallet. In fact . . .

I’d better grab that.

If the man’s wallet is missing, it will take a while for the police to identify him, and when they do, it’ll look like he was mugged while out walking his dog.

It’s time to get out of here, fighting the instinct to run every step of the way. It isn’t far, just around the corner, but . . .

Slow and steady.

Always, always, slow and steady.

Part II

Saturday, June 8

Happily Ever After

When I was growing up in a landlocked antebellum home across the highway, I used to pedal my bike past the charming raised cottages and graceful southern homes along Mobile Bay, daydreaming about what it would be like to live in one of them.

Now I do.

This lovely home my husband and I bought as newlyweds isn’t my only childhood dream come true.

As a girl, skirting sandy ruts and ducking low over my handlebars as I passed beneath low-hanging bows of massive live oaks, I liked to time my Saturday afternoon bike rides so there’d be a good chance I’d find a wedding in progress in the bayside garden at the Grand Hotel.

I’d park my bike in a secluded spot where I could spy on the beautiful brides in white lace with their dashing, tuxedo-clad grooms. Eavesdropping as they exchanged age-old vows, I made a vow of my own: “Someday, I’m going to meet Mr. Right and be married in that very spot.”

A decade later—over twenty years ago now—I met Mr. Right at a Labor Day barbecue.

He was drastically different from the good time Charlies I’d found so captivating that summer after graduating from the University of Alabama. No longer a sorority girl, I was still drawn to frat boy types—until I met Rob. He was a few years older, quiet and earnest, with strong southern roots and a law degree from one of the top universities in the Northeast. He’d just passed the bar and was newly employed by the Mobile law firm where he’s long since been made a partner. He proposed a few months after our first date and we were married the following spring—right on the spot I’d picked out as a little girl, in the garden at the Grand Hotel amid blooming azaleas and magnolias.

We exchanged those same vows I’d eavesdropped upon and sighed over as a hopelessly romantic preteen. We promised to stay together for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health . . .

Sickness.

Health.

Those weighty words don’t make much impact when you’re a starry-eyed twelve-year-old dreaming of fairy-tale endings—or even when you’re a lace-clad bride embarking on happily ever after.

Sometimes, dreams come true.

Sometimes, your worst nightmare becomes reality . . . then fades away, the way nightmares do the morning after.

My husband and I will celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary tomorrow. Some years have been better than we expected, and a few of them have been much worse, but I choose to believe the best are yet to come.

—Excerpt from Landry’s blog, The Breast Cancer Diaries

Chapter 6

Early Saturday morning—before the sun comes up—Rob drives Landry to the airport.

Sitting in the front seat beside him, clutching the full stainless steel coffee mug he handed her back in the kitchen, she gazes at the darkened landscape through the passenger’s side window, resting her temple against the glass.

She wants to tell him to turn around and go home.

I’ve changed my mind.

I don’t want to go to Cincinnati.

I never wanted to go.

I’m only doing it because I feel like I have to. Because it’s the right thing, the brave thing—the hard thing. Because that’s the role model I want to be for my children.

In this case, for her daughter. Addison is the one who’s interested in what’s going on with her right now. Tucker is in his own little adolescent world, caught up in video games, friends, his first job, and, most likely, summer girls. He knows Landry lost a friend, knows she’s flying up North for the memorial service today, but asked no questions and has said very little about it, other than to look up from his iPhone long enough to offer an obligatory, “Sorry about your friend, Mom.”

That’s okay. He’s a kid.

So is Addison, really. But Addie keeps asking if she’s all right. She always does her chores without being asked, but the last couple of days she’s gone out of her way to take care of things around the house, to make things easier.

It reminds Landry of the morning, years ago, when Addie made her breakfast in bed while she was in the midst of treatment. French toast. Landry’s never been fond of sweets in the morning, and she’d woken up terribly nauseated that particular day. But she choked down the syrup-and-powdered-sugar-drenched French toast and asked for seconds.

Addison beamed. “I’m so glad you like it, Mommy. I knew a good breakfast would make you feel better.”

My sweet, kind, caring girl, Landry thought then—and thought it again late last night, when she went into her daughter’s room to kiss her good-night and good-bye for the weekend.

“I just got paid, so I bought you some magazines at work this afternoon,” Addie said, handing over a bag from the hotel gift shop. “Good Hollywood gossipy ones, the kind you like, to keep you busy on the plane.”

“You didn’t have to do that, sweetie. Don’t spend your money on me.”

“I like to. You spend your money on me. Oh, and I made you this. Wear it with your black dress tomorrow.”

Addison handed her an onyx bracelet featuring two silver beads etched with the initials MH.

She could barely thank her daughter over the lump in her throat, and gave her a long, hard hug.

“She loved jewelry,” she told Addie. “Meredith did. She blogged about that. She said that’s how she got into the habit of wearing earrings and necklaces to bed, because it made her head feel less naked after she lost all her hair.”