I would never. Coal is awful for the environment.
I got every person in the office, save Irene, practical electric toothbrushes, thank you very much. To be delivered after Christmas when everyone has started thinking about bettering themselves for the new year.
“Thanks, Katherine! This is beyond generous. I appreciate it, truly. I really appreciate it.”
I shrug as though it’s nothing, even though it means I’ll have to find some other way to spend Christmas Eve.
I know. Me? At the Rockettes? The very center of New York’s Christmas tourism?
But listen. As far as I’m concerned, twenty women kicking in perfect unison is a far more impressive feat than watching people throwing or kicking a ball around.
But something tells me that this guy needs them more, and I’d have been wasting one of the tickets anyway.
It’s nice, though. Spreading a little of the holiday spirit crap. I immediately scowl at the forbidden thought. It must be the sprinkles and peppermint mocha upsetting my Grinch-Scrooge equilibrium.
I lift a hand in farewell. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”
“Mitch.”
Damn. So close.
I lift an apologetic hand and climb into the waiting cab. “Fifty-Seventh and Park.”
Nodding in confirmation, the cabbie pulls into traffic.
A second later, I hear a screech followed by the terrifying sound of crunching metal.
Then everything goes black.
EIGHT
TOM
December 23, 11:55 a.m.
God bless Uber.
As far as I’m concerned, ride-sharing services and their handy corresponding apps are just about the best thing to happen to this city since the first subway line opened in the early 1900s.
（And yes, I do ride the subway on occasion. Don’t tell my mother because I don’t think I can survive hearing about the subway pirates conspiracy a second time.）
But when I’m on a tight schedule? Headed to the airport? While carrying around a ring that costs a couple months’ salary?
Uber.
There are those New Yorkers who think cabs have the upper hand. These people would be wrong.
With Uber, you don’t have that ghastly little TV built into the back of the seat forcing you to watch recycled Jeopardy questions.
With Uber, you don’t have to stand at the curb and wave your arm in the air to try to lasso the attention of your ride.
With Uber, there’s no chance that you can be patiently waiting for an available car to drive by, only to be upstaged by someone who appears out of nowhere and steals your cab.
Unfortunately, there is one downfall to both taxis and ride-sharing options:
Traffic.
And in New York City, there’s always traffic.
But in the days leading up to Christmas? There’s a lot of it. My car hasn’t moved so much as a half block in nearly five minutes amid the gridlock. We’re not even to the Brooklyn Bridge yet, much less approaching JFK.
I check my watch. Shit.
I try to smile through my anxiety and lean forward to talk to my driver. “What if we try South Street?”
He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror and points to the navigation screen on his dash. “This way’s faster.”
I glance at where he’s pointing. The fact that his map is entirely red does nothing to assuage my concern.
Trying to distract myself, I pull out my phone to see if there’s anything from Lolo. I haven’t heard from her since she texted earlier that she’d landed and that my brother Lucas—who is apparently “too cute”—had picked her up at the curb without incident.
There’s nothing from her. Nothing from my family either, and I try not to let that bother me. She and Lucas definitely should have made it to my parents’ house by now, which means the family would have met her by now.
So where are the gushing texts about how great she is? The voicemail from my mother, whispering excitedly from the powder room that Lolo is an absolute doll?
I lock my phone and tap it impatiently against my thigh with a frown. Maybe it’s a good thing that I haven’t heard from anyone. Maybe they’re all so caught up in lively conversation that they lost track of time.
Because they’re going to love Lolo. Everyone loves Lolo. She has that sort of disposition that puts everyone at ease. She’s sweet, but not sugary. Friendly, but not in-your-face. Smart, but never a know-it-all.
She’s perfect.
So why haven’t I heard a damn thing?
The first time my family met Katherine, my family had practically swooned with collective approval, and Katherine was a termagant.
I bring an actual nice girl home to my family, and . . . silence?
It makes no sense.
And I hate that I’m not there to control the narrative of this first meeting. Or to check to see that my mother had the wherewithal to remove all photos of her from above the mantel. And to ensure my siblings don’t tell one of their nine million adoring “Remember that time that Katherine . . .” stories.
To their credit, they do check themselves before telling the actual story. But the meaningful eye contact exchanged between the three of them, the “we’ll reminisce when Tom’s not around”？ That’s almost worse.
My phone buzzes.
Finally.
Only, it’s not Lolo. Nor is it my mother. Or anyone I have saved in my contacts.
Which normally would be a “straight to voicemail” kind of situation, but this one gives me pause because it’s area code 212. Manhattan.
Curiosity wins, and I pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi, um, is this Tom Walsh?” The feminine voice has a stressed quality to it, as though she didn’t want to be the one to make this call but lost a coin flip.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
There’s a sigh of relief. “This is Alicia Grant. I work in HR at Kaplan & Gosset.”
I sit up very straight. And very still.
There’s a company name I haven’t heard spoken in years. And one whose very office I passed by just minutes ago.
“Okay?” I say because honestly, I cannot think of a single reason why they’d be calling me now, after all this time.
“Mr. Walsh, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but . . . there’s been an accident.”
NINE
KATHERINE
December 23, 12:49 p.m.
Even before I open my eyes, I know where I am.
See, hospitals have this smell.
Hospital Smell likes to think it’s a clean scent. But it’s too clean. Suspiciously so, because it knows it has things to hide.
Like bacteria and sepsis and bad news and permanent goodbyes.
Slowly, reluctantly, I open my eyes to slits and immediately groan because the horrible neon green of the fluorescent lights sends a laser of pain straight back into my eye sockets.
I manage to keep my eyes open just long enough to look down and see that I’m wearing a horrible hospital gown. The kind that your ass hangs out of. There are clouds on it.
This tells me two things:
I’m the patient in the hospital.
And I’m in hell.
But the whole “how did I get to this hell?” That part eludes me.
I close my eyes again, trying to force my brain to sort through the muddiness. I remember talking to . . . Martin?
No. Marvin. No. Matthew? No.
That I have no idea the guy’s name is actually a relief because that’s normal for me.