I want to sit on a rocky beach beside a lighthouse and watch the sun rise over the Atlantic ocean, and I want to eat lobster pulled out of the sea just minutes ago.

I want to buy a hot dog from a street cart in New York City and check out the view of Central Park from the top of a skyscraper.

I want to cheer for the home team in the stands at the Great American Ballpark and taste Skyline chili.

I want to fly across the ocean to England and see a real castle and Big Ben and London Bridge.

And so today, and every day, I’m grateful for the blogging friends that have stopped along the way, read my words, shared their own and broadened my small world. Who would have thought writing about cancer could do that?

—Excerpt from Kay’s blog, I’m A-Okay

Chapter 14

Something’s wrong, Landry realizes, watching Kay and Elena walking out into the airport terminal, clearly in the midst of a weighty discussion.

Well—a one-sided discussion: Elena, pulling a wheeled carry-on bag, seems to be doing all the talking. And whatever she’s talking about has them both so absorbed that they don’t even remember to look around for her.

“Guys,” she calls, “over here.”

Distracted, they glance over, wave, and head toward her—Elena in such a hurry that she nearly bowls over several leisurely southerners on the way. Landry senses that her rush has nothing to do with being glad to see her again, and everything to do with whatever they were talking about.

“Kay just saw her in the airport,” Elena blurts, then catches herself and leans in for a hug. “Sorry. Hi. Thank you so much for coming to get us, for having us . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be—”

“What is going on?”

Still hugging her, Elena whispers in her ear, “Jenna Coeur. Kay saw her.”

“What?” Landry’s heart skips a beat. “Where?”

“At the airport.”

She jerks back, looking around.

“Not this airport. In Atlanta.”

Catching up to them, Kay asks, “Did she tell you?”

Landry nods numbly. “You saw her at the airport?”

“I thought I saw her. I’m not a hundred percent sure.”

Of course not. Nothing, according to Bruce, is a hundred percent certain. But . . .

“What was she doing? Was she on your flight?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. That, I’m sure about. The woman I saw—if it was her—she was still sitting in the gate area when I got on the plane, and I was the last one to board.”

“They closed the door right after Kay,” Elena confirms. “Did she see you see her?” she asks Kay.

“I don’t think so.”

“What made you think it was Jenna Coeur?” Landry asks.

“She looked like the woman in the picture Detective Burns showed me on Saturday.”

“But she didn’t get on this flight,” Landry can’t help saying—again—as her gaze flicks uneasily at the other passengers coming from the gate area.

“No, she didn’t,” Kay assures her. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Every seat was taken,” Elena tells Landry. “I’m thinking she must have been on standby. She’s probably on the next flight from Atlanta.”

“There are a few more, this afternoon and tonight.” Landry knows the schedule. She took one of those flights herself, on Sunday. With Bruce Mangione.

I have to call Bruce.

Right now.

I have to tell him—

“Kay, I think you should let Detective Burns know.” Elena says interrupting Landry’s thoughts. “She gave me her personal cell phone number. I plugged it into my phone.”

“I have it, too,” Kay says, “but I’m not even positive it was Jenna Coeur, so—”

“You’re trying to talk yourself out of it.”

“Maybe I am,” Kay tells Elena, “but . . . I mean, I thought it was her. It probably wasn’t.”

But if it was . . .

If Jenna Coeur is on her way to Alabama . . .

Then what? Do you honestly believe she’s coming here to kill you all?

The thought is preposterous.

Still . . .

“Detective Burns needs to know anyway,” Landry says. “Do you want me to call her?” She, too, has the detective’s personal cell phone number.

“No. I can make the call.”

“Then I’m going to go to the ladies’ room,” Elena announces. “I’ve had to go since we left Atlanta, but they left the seat belt sign on the whole way and the flight attendant wouldn’t let me get up.”

“I thought you just wanted to talk to me,” Kay tells her.

“I did, but I also had to pee. I drank a couple of . . . cups of coffee during the layover. I’ll meet you guys by the baggage claim. Kay checked a bag,” she adds, to Landry.

“Sorry.” Kay shakes her head. “I should have done carry-on like Elena said, but I haven’t flown in a long time and there are so many rules now . . . I was a little intimidated.”

“I just hope your bag made the connection,” Elena tells her, “and I’m really glad Jenna Coeur didn’t.”

Apparently overhearing the familiar name, a nearby middle-aged couple turns their heads as they walk past, shooting Elena a curious look.

At Landry’s belated “Shhh!” Elena whispers, “Sorry. I’m used to speaking loudly and enunciating for my first graders. I’ll be down at baggage in a few minutes.”

She disappears into the ladies’ room, leaving Landry and Kay to regard each other anxiously.

“What do you think is going on?” Kay asks.

“You’re the one who saw her. I don’t know what to think.”

“I thought it was her, in that moment. I really did. But now I keep wondering if I was just imagining things.”

“Deep down . . . do you think that’s all it was? Just your imagination?”

Kay hesitates, then shakes her head, eyes wide. “She’s coming here, isn’t she?”

“I hope not. I really do. Call Detective Burns. I’m going to call my husband.”

“To tell him about this?”

“What? No! I just want to . . . make sure he landed. I’ll meet you over at the baggage claim in a few minutes.”

“Okay. Where is it?”

Landry points in the right direction, then hurries away, already reaching for her own cell phone.

She doesn’t dial until she’s slipped into a distant, shadowy, relatively private corner of the terminal.

He picks up on the first ring.

Not Rob. Rob can’t help her right now; he’s seven hundred miles away.

“Bruce Mangione.”

She takes a deep breath. “I think I’m in trouble. Big trouble. I need your help.”

Use a made-up word you wouldn’t find in the dictionary, not a name or initials . . .

When Beck remembers the advice she gave to her mother—and realizes Mom took it—she wonders how she possibly could have missed the password until now.

Then again, when the worst tragedy imaginable has struck the person you love more than almost anyone—no, more than anyone—in the world, is it any wonder that your mind is too grief-clouded for logic?

But now all that matters is that she’s guessed it correctly at last.

It took her a while, even after she figured out that stinkerdoodle was the password, because the word was only part of it. She had to remember the rest of the advice she’d given her mother.

Substitute a digit for a letter—a zero for an O—or replace it with a symbol, like the at symbol for an A, or a dollar sign for an S . . .

If you use the phone number, put the digits in reverse . . .

Mom had done all of the above. The password is $tinkerd00dle5697.

Open Sesame . . .

At last granted access to her mother’s e-mail account, she begins scrolling through the mail folders, hoping to find everything intact: old mail, sent mail . . .

“Aunt Beck?”

“Mmm-hmm?” She looks up to see Jordan tearing a page out of his coloring book.

“I made this for you.”

“Oh, Jordan . . .” She swallows hard and gathers him close, examining the picture and complimenting him on the beautiful colors and the way he’d tried to stay inside the lines. “Great job, sweetie.”