my husband’s soul. For my own salvation.” Again, she pressed together her lips. Tears glistened in her eyes. “But I also pray for the Wilson family. Because they have suffered today as much as any of us have suffered.” She looked directly into the camera, shoulders squared. “I forgive Kelly Wilson. I absolve her of this horrible tragedy. As Matthew says, ‘for if you forgive other people who have sinned against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you your sins.’”
The woman turned and walked back into the hospital. Guards blocked the doors to keep reporters from following her.
Sam let out a breath that had been held deep inside her chest.
The anchor came back onscreen. He was sitting at a desk with a panel of self-styled experts. Their words floated over Sam’s head as she pulled Fosco back into her lap.
A British friend of Sam’s had claimed that England had lost its stiff upper lip the day that Princess Diana had died. Overnight, a culture given to wry comments in lieu of emotion had turned into a weepy mess. The friend called this phenomenon yet another unwelcome Americanization—the Brits were constantly complaining about America, even as they greedily consumed American products and culture—and said that the public outpouring of grief over Diana’s death had forever altered the way that his people could acceptably respond to tragedy.
There was probably some truth to his theory, even the part about blaming America, but Sam believed the worst result of these seemingly unrelenting national tragedies was that a formula for recovery had emerged. The Boston Marathon attacks. San Bernardino. The Pulse Nightclub.
People were outraged. They were glued to their televisions, to their web pages, to their Facebook feeds. They vocally expressed sorrow, horror, fury, pain. They cried for change. They raised money. They demanded action.
And then they went back to their lives until the next one happened again.
Sam’s eyes flicked back to the television. The news anchor said, “We’re going to show the video from before. For viewers who are just tuning in, this is a re-enactment of the events that took place this morning in Pikeville, which is roughly two hours north of Atlanta.”
Sam watched the crude drawings awkwardly move across the screen—more of a simulation than a re-enactment.
The anchor began, “At approximately six fifty-five this morning, the alleged shooter, Kelly Rene Wilson, walked into the hallway.”
Sam watched the figure move to the center of the hallway.
A door opened. An old woman ducked as two bullets were fired.
Sam closed her eyes, but she listened.
Mr. Pinkman is shot. Lucy Alexander is shot. Two more figures enter the frame. Neither is identified by name. One male, the other female. The woman runs to Lucy Alexander. The man struggles with Kelly Wilson for the gun.
Sam opened her eyes. There was a bead of sweat on her forehead. She had gripped her hands so tightly that half-moon indentations cut into her palms.
Her cell phone started to ring. From the kitchen. Inside her purse.
Sam did not move. She watched the television. The anchor was interviewing a bald man whose bow tie indicated he was likely involved in the psychiatric profession.
He said, “Generally, you find that these types of shooters are loners. They feel alienated, unloved. Often, they are bullied.”
Her phone stopped ringing.
Bow Tie continued, “The fact that the murderer in this instance is a woman—”
Sam turned off the television. The room faded to pitch-black, but she was used to maneuvering through the darkness. She checked to make sure Fosco was sleeping beside her. She tentatively reached out for the wine bottle and glass and took them into the kitchen, where the contents of both went down the sink.
Sam checked her phone. The call had come from an unknown number. Likely a telesalesman, though she’d had her number added to the do-not-call registry. Sam used her thumb to navigate the screens and block the number.
The phone vibrated in her hand, announcing a new email. She looked at the time. Hong Kong was open for business. If there was one constant in Sam’s life, it was the steady, unrelenting volume of work to be done.
She didn’t want to commit to retrieving her reading glasses unless there was an urgent message. She squinted, skimming down the list of new mails.
She left them all unopened.
Sam put the phone on the counter. She went about her nightly routine. She made sure all of Fosco’s water bowls were full. She turned off the lights, pressed the appropriate buttons to close the blinds, checked to