Prologue ~ Mel

The World Trade Center, Outdoor Plaza

New York City

September 11, 2001, just after 8:46 a.m.

An object whips by my ear and falls at the toe of my black stiletto. What’s that? A closer look reveals a fractured photo frame. A wedding picture that’s cracked down the middle. Crimson droplets splash across the bride’s white dress in the twisted image. Strange. Am I dreaming? My mind blanks as thunder roars above and the air fills with the stench of gasoline.

No, this is real.

A scream pierces the air. As if my soul is somehow detached, it dawns on me that I’m the one making that pitiful sound. But before there’s time to gather my bearings, another something pummels my other foot. I quickly pray and scan the ground. The words Steeline Stapler flash off a bit of metal near the broken portrait.

Other ragged pieces of sky rain down, propelling me forward. Where to go? Through glass panels, I can see a ball of fire spin inside the North Tower foyer. A blue-orange flame sparks and smokes, and then sparks again. A wave of heat rolls off the building’s wall, drenching me in sweat.

Voices yell, “Here! Here!” over my shoulder. Across the plaza a woman’s holding a door open in the South Tower lobby. But just as my gaze meets hers a random piece of debris hits me, hard. Shit! My knees and wrists slam the concrete as my purse rolls off. So painful.

Stunned, lying on the ground, I cry, “Help me!” Seconds later out of a smoky haze, a stranger grabs my arm and drags me, but I tug back. “My bag.”

“Forget it, lady. You don’t need it,” he shouts just as a pillar of iron crashes to earth right on top of my purse. I glance to the pummeled-in pavement. A large pile of crumpled steel rests in the space where my head had been. My heart beats faster—I was almost killed. My senses flood with images of a premature funeral. That was way too close.

But wait … isn’t that what I’ve wanted?

Wouldn’t life be easier if they thought I died today?

Chapter 1 ~ Mel

Some twenty years later

Yale

New Haven, Connecticut

Summer graduation ceremony

How do you tell someone you love you’re not dead?

“A tip, always be authentic.” The commencement speaker taps his chest. “In the end, you won’t regret that.”

The irony almost makes me laugh. I haven’t been myself for years. Obviously, I’ve made some mistakes. But when you’re young, you don’t think of consequences. You don’t think about staying up all night, engaging in random hookups, telling your boss off, or even breaking the law. Still, little by little, regret sinks in. And as the wrinkles appear, you begin to realize you won’t live forever. Maybe you should’ve made different choices, smarter choices, choices that don’t come back to haunt you.

Forty was my tipping point where all those little regrets descended. I felt compelled to do the thing I never wanted to—look back. My history’s not a pretty thing. No, I wasn’t America’s sweetheart. I was a thief, a sophisticated thief, a Wall Street con, but I stole just the same, not only from rich assholes, but also from little old ladies.

Yet, somehow over time, I grew a conscience. How did that happen? Now, I’m wondering, is it too late to change? Well, I’m about to find out. That’s why I’m here, on a folding chair in the middle of the Old Yard at Yale, on a miserably hot, overcast June day.

The speaker finishes. “Thank you and congratulations!” Cheers go up, not for that tired speech, but because it’s time. Students line up, eager to march across that stage that’s draped with colorful banners and college crests. Rows of crammed-in onlookers block my view, so I scoot forward, elbowing the snooty woman next to me. She clutches her pearls and looks back aghast. I don’t care. I’ve waited this long and come this far. I’m going to see.

More than twenty years is quite a gap, probably past the statute of limitations for redemption, but I’d like to try. Worse than being a thief, I left her behind, the little girl I loved. Of course, she’s grown now, but thanks to social media I’ve had a chance to see her life, at least on a screen.

When she was only a toddler, my stepdaughter stole my heart. I didn’t know I had one until she came along. The life of a thief doesn’t provide much room for being soft or caring.

She’s graduating today from Yale, my alma mater, with a degree in finance, my degree too. Although, I took a lot of liberties with what I learned at school. Still, in many ways, we’re so alike you’d think we were mother and daughter.

That’s why I need to see her again, to talk to her. I don’t want her to make the mistakes I did. Most of all, I don’t want her father turning her into a con, even a fancy, sophisticated Wall Street con. But there’s a catch. She thinks I’m dead—so, that’s a bit of an obstacle.

The two jumbotrons at the end of the lawn make it easier to glimpse all the faces as they cross the stage. So young. Was I ever that young? Each smile as they shake the Dean’s hand. Garcia … Geller … Grandin … Yes. She’s next. The announcer states, “Isla Green.” Beautiful, taller than I guessed.

Her auburn hair’s long with bushy curls bursting out on either side of her cap. With a wide, toothy grin, she does a subtle skip before those pompous-robed leaders. Fleeting, her image disappears as another grad walks on, triggering my own memory, my own wonderful day, striding over that same dais. Decades ago now.

Before long, the President gives his closing remarks, which seem rushed. My guess, he’s worried about the weather. Why risk an outdoor ceremony? Nobody likes to take risks anymore, including me. A shout of, “You are dismissed!” and the white haired, pale-faced old guy releases his scholars, creating a rumble through the yard. Youthful, hard bodies rise, fists, and hats in the air as waves of confetti and ribbons spring forth.

I’m so glad for Isla. I hope she’s happy. I hope her life hasn’t been too hard—that her father wasn’t too much of an asshole. How did I ever leave her—and with Sid? A sharp pang grows in my chest. This is my biggest regret.

Of course, he wasn’t going to let me have her, the cute kid who used to crawl in my lap, her arms so warm and loving, her giggle joyous. As a stepmother, I had no legal rights, and with my line of work at the time, I didn’t dare contact the authorities. Still, was there something else I could’ve done?

Isla needs to know that the thought of her saved me. Truly, she’s the reason I’m alive. But I’m not sure about how to approach her. I wring and twist my hands covered in lady-white gloves, hiding nails bitten to the quick. I’m getting cold feet.

What would I say? What would she think? She might be upset. Of course, she’d be upset. If she remembers at all, she’ll probably hate me. As if I could be a mother. Why did I think showing up would fix everything? Really, it was stupid of me to come and a huge risk.

The winds pick up, floating more confetti across the yard, whipping my face with a blue and white streamer. I wipe it away and realize the moment has passed. No, I can’t do this. I’m out of here. I sweep my hair under my pale-pink, floppy-hat then sink the brim just above oversized sunglasses. Rising, I search for an exit except too many damn people are piling into these makeshift aisles. I shove and push past the crowd for the street, when, out of nowhere a hand grips my wrist.

“Meet me at The Stanfield in an hour,” he whispers. Sid. I’d know that raspy voice anywhere. Shit, just what I was trying to avoid. Why did I think he wouldn’t see me? Squeezing harder, he adds, “Suite 203.”

A surge of forward momentum breaks his hold as fast-moving families separate us, a massive flood of parents, siblings, and friends. The current drives Sid away, his face disappearing under a sea of caps and gowns, as if he’s drowning.

This would be so much easier if he were.

The Stanfield. The name jolts my mind back too many years, to our getaways at the romantic bed and breakfast. At the time, it was a life preserver for our relationship, a place to leave work behind, to dive into parties and lovemaking. The ideal escape, when Sid, ever the Yale booster, played the elites. Our life in the beginning was practically perfect, but I’ve learned that you can’t trust perfect. It’s almost always hiding an underbelly of nasty lies.

Except I did trust Sid. And what did I get? Bruised and battered. It’s a strange thing when your head’s been hit so many times. You start thinking you deserve it—because you can’t think straight anymore. Thank God, he never laid a hand on Isla. He only took his anger out on me. So no, it wasn’t his manhandling alone that made me want to run. It was the way he relished telling me that terrible secret years ago. The one about my father. The one I never wanted to hear.

After that I couldn’t stay, not even for Isla.

Chapter 2 ~ Mel

My eyes strain to see Sid, but he’s vanished into the Old Yard. So, I turn and sprint, dodging the crowd for my car. But what do I do? Do I meet him? Face my consequences and try to right a wrong? Or do I just keep running?

***

One hour later.

The unmistakable turrets, shingled, white siding and gray-slate roof—The Stanfield sits at the end of the street. Fob in hand, I tap the steering wheel of my rental. The years haven’t been kind to the old B&B. The vibrant colors of flags and flowers on the porch, all gone. And from where I’m parked, the sidewalk’s abuzz with pedestrians, an overflow from the day’s events, but down at The Stanfield no one passes or enters, as if the house is dead.

The wrought-iron fence surrounding the place is rusted, and the gate off the driveway is chained. Can I even get in? The lawn is unkempt, and overgrown monster shrubs creep up the Victorian walls. What’s Sid up to? The Stanfield is clearly closed.

An evergreen tree in front appears at least forty-feet high with a flimsy, pointy top that sways back and forth in the wind.

Well, he knows I’m alive now. If I don’t go in, he’ll find me. But this situation doesn’t feel right. He definitely has the upper hand. I don’t even have a weapon. Maybe he won’t find me.

Then, out from under billowing oaks, there’s a girl. She’s tall, long auburn hair flowing with her back to me in a blue wrap dress. She turns toward The Stanfield and marches up the driveway. I can’t see her face, but I’m pretty sure it’s Isla. Maybe Sid’s changed—highly unlikely. Oh, anything’s possible. Maybe he wants her to know the truth.

The girl pushes the gates open. Obviously not locked. Isla heads up the steps and through the double doors.

I’ve got to go in.

Entering the lobby, I’m struck by the staircase. It’s still here. Mammoth. As if it’s right out of the Titanic with rich, brown-handled railings that end in swirling spirals. I look closer and see that several spindles are broken or missing, and the wood is unpolished and scratched.

Underneath the stairs, I spot that same old loveseat where Sid proposed. I’d felt such joy at the thought of being Sidney Green’s wife. That was hugely naïve.

A few antique chairs sit scattered across the lobby, but the Stanfield is eerily quiet, a ghost of its former self. I search past the library doors then lean in to get a better view. Books on the shelves look as if they’ve collected more dust than readers, and above the marble fireplace is a large, vintage clock, arms frozen at five past twelve.

“Isla?” I call out softly. Above the doors on the crown molding, there’s a sizable spider web, letting me know this place no longer houses human guests. A small, six-legged creature scoots across its finely spun trap.

“Isla?” Again, no response. What did Sid say? Suite 203.

I step over a buckled floorboard to the stairs, and creaking sounds escape. With trepidation, I climb, wondering if the treads beneath will give way. In no time, I’m at the top, on the second floor, but still no Isla or Sid.

Then I hear a male voice. “Down here.”

I force myself toward it. I know it’s Sid in one of the suites. Maybe Isla’s there too.

A few steps more and I see a tarnished brass plate: Suite 203. The door’s cracked open about an inch. A beady eye peers out at me. Sid’s. The door finally swings inward as its hinges squeak a faint warning. “Come in, Mel.”

Can I do this? Can I face her?

“I’ve never seen a corpse look better,” Sid says, with a sweep of his hand and slight bow. “Have a seat.”

He seems so familiar, as if it’s only been weeks since I last saw him. From the tone of his voice, he’s cocky. That may be, but Sid’s looks don’t match his attitude. He’s aged, probably around sixty-five now, with a saggy jowl line and a bit of a gut. My guess is he’s put on a good thirty pounds. Knowing him, that’s got to hurt, but he still has that head of hair he was so damn proud of.

I step in. The suite matches the rest of this old Victorian: torn drapes over a window, a tattered rug on the floor. Crazy place to set a meeting. A queen-size canopy bed and an oversized armchair rest near the door. An empty rocker slowly sways under the open window. But no Isla.

“I’ve come here to do what I can to make amends,” I say.

“Sit down.” A little slurry, he says, “I’ve missed you.”

A woody, antiseptic, aroma rises. Bourbon. Sid’s love of it turned me off some time ago. When I left him, he’d been dry a couple of months. But I knew he wouldn’t stop, he’s a hopeless drunk.

Sid motions to the armchair. There’s silence as our gazes lock, and I remember, as I know he does, our effed-up history. Then Sid plops down on the bed, pats the faded, flowered comforter and says, “Unless you’d like to join me.”

Hah, still thinks he’s George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven. I ignore that and stand. Sid breaks his stare and turns to the timeworn nightstand. Resting on top is a silver tray with a bottle of Wild Turkey and crystal cut glasses. He unscrews the lid to his bourbon and pours. Raising a glass with a cold glint in his eyes, he asks, “Would you like to join me in a drink then?”

“No.”

“Fine.” He briefly cocks his head to the side as his expression turns to one of disbelief. “How did you do it, Mel? How’d you get out of the towers?”

“I wasn’t in the towers on 9/11.”

“Ah.” His eyes glance up like he’s pondering the past. “But Rosa said she spoke to you on the phone about five minutes before it happened.”

“Then she got her time wrong. I spoke to her about eight that morning. I took a break, went down, and sat outside in the plaza. Needed to clear my head.”

“So, when everything went down?”

“I saw my chance and left.”

“That was easy.” He takes a swig of his bourbon then slams his glass on the nightstand, hitting the edge of the tray with an annoying chiming sound. “But it wasn’t easy on us,” he says, “We searched for you.”

“Us?” I step forward. “Isla’s here?”

“Down the hall, Suite 206.”

Down the hall. So close. I spin around but hear Sid’s feet come up behind.

“Not yet.” He slips between me and the door. At just over six feet, Sid’s presence makes me take a step back. “You and I need to get reacquainted. It’s not every day a man’s wife comes back from the dead.”

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