Not yet ready to commence writing, she had begun piecing together Michael’s life and the family history that had dragged him toward what seemed an almost predestined direction; learned that Thad Rider, the father he’d never known, had died five years ago, and wondered how differently things might have unfolded if the rock singer had stayed; found, as she followed Michael’s journey, that its kindlier uphill paths and dark downward dives brought to mind a graphic visualization.
Calm, steady climbs. Then mostly downhill all the way.
Michael’s private past not for publication, that much non-negotiable.
The notion of getting her own professional break through the ordeal repugnant but perhaps inevitable.
It was after that would count, what she’d learned from it all.
What she did with it.
She found it hard to concentrate for long.
Michael in her thoughts too often.
She thought she saw him now and then, a flash of a thin, dark-haired, sharp-featured man, hurrying through the crowds at rush-hour or strolling through the Public Garden or spied from a window seat on a bus.
It was never Michael.
Even if he had survived, he would never come to Boston.
And even if, someday, it was him, they had no future together.
Just another fantasy to learn to live without.
Michael Rider would never be truly with her, never keep her warm at night.
The only tangible remnants of him a framed photograph of a charcoal drawing on her wall and an envelope full of stolen hundred-dollar bills.
Maybe, one day, the cops would arrive with a search warrant.
Or maybe, one day, she would finally take it out from its hiding place, give it away or burn it, or even spend it. Rid herself of that guilt, cease searching for a ghost.
Maybe, in time, the Reaper nightmares would die away.
Not likely to happen any time soon, she thought.
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