At last, an exciting mission, empowering when embraced. For too long it seems we were stuck in a sea of pink, hearing of changes, wanting to believe advancements were being made. Needing to believe optimistic statistics when in actuality approximately 40,000 people still die from this disease every year.

About as many as two decades ago.

That’s not advancement. That’s not change. That’s a number hidden so far down in a sea of pink we barely see it, but deep within ourselves, where the scary thoughts thrive, we know it’s the truth. Pink awareness is not enough.

The people attending this event heard the conversation shift. They refocused on facts, and with a concrete goal in sight discussed how research, combined with action and dedication, could have the 2020 eradication deadline within our grasps.

Social media was at its finest as bloggers tweeted from their workshops. I couldn’t absorb the information fast enough and want to thank them for taking time to spread the inspiration around.

If I had to choose a place to be that weekend, it would have been there in Washington, beside this group of incredibly motivated women. Dragging cancer to the center of the room for all to see. Believing it was now possible to kick out the unwanted guest . . . never to be seen again.

—Excerpt from Jaycee’s blog, PC BC

Chapter 10

Jaycee had spotted a Starbucks along the mile of suburban highway between the interstate exit and the funeral home. Now, making her way back, she keeps an eye out for it, desperate to grab a cup of coffee for the road. Good, strong, familiar coffee, as opposed to the watered-down stuff they served her on the flight.

Cory might tease her about her affinity for Starbucks, but there’s something to be said for consistency and availability. Especially when you’ve traveled all over the world, or been trapped in a prison cell—neither of which guarantee you a decent cup of coffee on a daily basis.

She should know, unlike Cory, who spent his life luxuriating in the concrete canyons of Manhattan and the rugged canyons of L.A., taking creature comforts for granted.

Zeroing in on the familiar green and white logo on a signpost up ahead, Jaycee checks the rearview mirror out of habit, to make sure she isn’t being followed. She half expects to spot the Crown Victoria from the funeral home parking lot on her tail.

But all she sees is a red pickup truck, a couple of SUVs, and a little white car, and they all fly right on past as she turns into the parking lot.

Good.

She’s pretty sure that the woman back at the funeral home recognized her—and that she happened to be law enforcement. But even if that was the case, the woman would have no reason to come chasing after her, right? Attending a funeral isn’t a crime.

Hell, some crimes aren’t even a crime.

No one knows that better than you do.

Not that she wants to think about all that now. She came here to escape.

Right. Brilliant move.

Most people needing a reprieve would hop a plane to some remote Caribbean island. But not you. Nope. You fly away to a funeral.

Yes, but a friend’s funeral—a friend who meant a lot to her. A friend she hasn’t fully allowed herself to grieve, even now.

But when you get right down to it, is she really here in Ohio solely because of Meredith? Ever since the others began making plans to come for the service this weekend, there was a part of her that wistfully longed to join them even though she knew it was impossible.

She isn’t one of them. Not really.

As usual, she tried to push the uncomfortable truth to the back of her mind. But it’s pretty telling that the moment trouble popped up and she needed to flee, this is where she wound up.

I guess I was meant to be here all along, watching from the sidelines.

So what else is new?

Jaycee parks the car, grabs her wallet from the oversized bag on the seat, and goes into Starbucks wearing just the sunglasses and of course her blond wig, but not the hat. Aside from baseball caps, no one around here wears hats, not even to a funeral. She should have known better than to choose a disguise that would make her even more conspicuous. She won’t make that mistake again.

Stepping across the threshold, she takes a deep breath of java-laced air and is instantly soothed by the familiar, manufactured-to-be-inviting setting: mood lighting, intimate tables and chairs suitable for one, hipster baristas, vintage crooners on the audio system. The people sitting and sipping are either caught up in quiet conversations, absorbed in their laptops, or plugged into headphones. No one gives her a second glance as she joins the line of people waiting to order.

When it’s her turn, she steps forward and asks for the usual: a venti latte with a triple shot of espresso.

“Name?” asks the girl behind the register.

“Annie,” Jaycee tells her, and watches her write it in marker on a venti-sized cup.

Annie was her first cellmate, a crackhead prostitute with three little kids and the proverbial heart of gold. She’d killed her dealer—or was it her pimp? Jaycee doesn’t remember the exact details of the case now; it was a long time ago and they weren’t cellmates for very long. She only knows that while Annie might have been a murderer—though she said she’d done it in self-defense—her odd blend of streetwise sass and protective maternal attitude helped Jaycee survive some rough days, and rougher nights.

“Don’chu forget me now,” Annie said before she was transferred to another jail, closer to where her kids were. “When I get out, I’m go’an come look you up.”

“I’ll probably still be here.”

Annie was already shaking her head. “You go’an get off, girlfriend. You mark my words.”

She was right.

Annie never did come find her. Chances are she’s probably serving a long prison sentence, or back on the streets, or dead.

But Annie didn’t want to be forgotten, and she hasn’t been. Jaycee uses the name now as her random default identity for Starbucks and anywhere else she has to place an order with a name attached. She used to choose something different every time, but that became confusing. She’d forget who she was supposed to be.

Even now, there are days when she forgets: Jaycee, or Jenna Coeur, or her real name . . . or any number of identities she’s used and discarded over the years.

She pays for her beverage and pockets the change. Back home in New York she’d have left it in the tips cup on the counter. Here, hardly anyone does that. She’s been watching.

When in Rome . . .

That’s the key to keeping a low profile. You fit in with the locals. Don’t provide reason for them to give you a second glance. Throwing tip money into the cup would necessitate an extra thank you from the cashier or might arouse resentment in the customers behind her; not tipping makes her just like everybody else.

Less than a minute later the barista is calling, “Ann?”

Jaycee thanks her and takes a sip. The hot, pleasantly strong liquid slides down her throat.

Ah. Finally, a moment of peace.

She eyes the seating area, spotting an empty table for one beside the big picture window facing the road.

Maybe she won’t take her coffee to go after all. It would be a relief just to settle down for a few minutes and check her e-mails and text messages. By now Cory must have figured out she’s gone. He’s probably worried.

He doesn’t know about Meredith, of course—and she has no intention of telling him.

As Meredith’s daughter finishes reading the last few lines of her poem, Landry wipes tears from her eyes with a soggy tissue. She can’t help but marvel at the young woman’s strength; can’t help but compare her to Addison.