up the middle of the road through her sleeping neighborhood, then through the gate to the park.
She did not look for hulking shadows or strange cars. She did not imagine fires and earthquakes turning her pretty neighborhood to ash. Or at least, when the thoughts came, she let them pass into the cool morning air.
The day stretched ahead of her as she picked up her pace, footfalls on concrete, the sound of her breath. Another runner passed in the opposite direction with a wave, yet another overtook her from behind and disappeared. She was slow, steady; speed was not an option. That was okay. Mommy-and-Me Yoga (which basically meant no one got to do any yoga) this morning. Picnic lunch with the park mommies, a bitch and kvetch session that was nonetheless kind of fun now that it wasn’t the only thing she had on the schedule. Final edits on their story “The Nightjar” in the studio tonight, Mitzi to come in the afternoon, Greg to take over in the evening. Another full day, one after which she would collapse into an exhausted pile of herself.
Don’t let this slow you down, kid.
“Are you happy?” Dad wanted to know when he came for dinner on Sunday. “Are you well?”
“I’m not sure I have time to think about it,” she’d laughed.
“Good answer,” he said.
“Is it?” Greg looked a little miffed. “Is it a good answer?”
But, yes, more or less. She was happy.
“It is a good answer,” said her father. “You can figure it out when the rush is over. Trust me, time to think about whether you’re happy or not is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Five miles later, she was back in the kitchen, making breakfast, when Lily’s voice sounded over the monitor.
“Mommy. Hungy.”
“Coming, bunny,” she called.
“I got her.” Greg from upstairs.
The bustle of morning—coffee brewing, Lily laughing, Greg running around looking for the keys that were in his pocket the whole time. Her phone pinging from somewhere—where was it? Once, twice, three times. She’d find it in a minute.
“Don’t be late,” she reminded him. “Mitzi has to go by six.”
“I won’t be late.”
And then at the door, a kiss. A real kiss, where she snaked her arms around his neck and he held her tight. Because—she was a wife, too. A mother. A journalist. A runner. Herself. A wife who made promises to her husband, and kept them.
Don’t let this slow you down, kid.
Greg left, and Rain turned on the live radio feed on her phone, Gillian’s voice low and soothing.
“Brian Tome, the man who was tried and acquitted for killing his ex-wife and two sons in their home, was found murdered today on his isolated property in Ocala, Florida. FBI officials say that they are investigating this in connection with other recent murders in which the victims were accused of crimes for which they were found innocent, or unfit to stand trial. This investigation, and the others, are ongoing.
“Special Agent Brower, in charge of the case, had this to say—‘We are treating this like we would treat any serial murder case. No one has the right to kill in cold blood.’
“Gillian Murray, reporting for National News Radio.”
The world seemed to stop, a hush falling. What did this mean?
Outside, Rain strapped Lily into her car seat.
“Time for Mommy-and-Me Yoga!” she said brightly. Lily bounced in excited anticipation.
It wasn’t Hank, she thought. He hadn’t murdered that man in Ocala. He had promised her that he would never do anything like that again; that he had that other side of himself managed. She’d believed him; he was done. He had Beth now, a calming influence in his life. Someone who understood his complexities, who loved him anyway. Maybe that’s what he needed all along. Someone who didn’t need him to be one man or the other.
So then, what? Another vigilante? A copycat? One inspired by the other vigilante killings?
What evidence?
A postscript to their story?
A sizzle of fear. Had she lost control of the narrative?
As she drove, Henry called.
“You heard, I guess,” he said over the speakerphone.
“I did.”
“Any theories?”
“No,” she said. “Not one.”
She’d spent a lot of time talking with Henry in recent weeks—trying to understand the dark web, murderabilia and the people who collect it, Kreskey’s online fan club, and the one that had sprung up around the man people were calling the Nightjar.
“A journalist without a theory,” he said. “I’ve never met one.”
“Journalists don’t have theories,” she reminded him. “They follow the facts. The facts—that’s the story. That and only