“Okay, I guess. It’s quiet at home with Scott gone, so I’m glad for an opportunity to get out.”
“Did you file a police report?”
“Last week,” she says.
“What did they say? Can they do anything?” We slide into single file as the path narrows, with Kat directly behind me. The trail drops off to the left into a deep canyon and I can’t see her face, but I imagine her carefully arranging her expression, flipping through the things she can and cannot say in order to maintain the facade that Scott is a midlevel bank employee and not a well-respected member of LAPD’s Commercial Crimes Division.
“They’re looking into it. But since the credit card was used for some household expenses, it doesn’t look good.”
Between her words are all the things she cannot say. What it must have been like for her to report him to his colleagues and the very real chance that they might cover for him. We’re quiet, our breath growing labored as the incline steepens. A group of laughing women approach us on their way down, and we step aside to let them pass. When we resume, I say, “You’re tougher than you think. You’ll get through this and be better for it.” And she will. I know for a fact that when your heart gets ripped out, it’ll reassemble into something stronger. More durable.
She doesn’t respond, but I know she heard me.
***
We make it up to the waterfall and turn around. The trip down is quiet and fast, and soon we find ourselves walking through a large clearing dotted with sycamore trees and a picnic table in the center. I gesture toward it and say, “Rest a bit before we go back to the real world?”
She shrugs. “Sure.”
When we’re settled, I say, “So what are your next steps?”
“I’ve sent the police report to Citibank and frozen the account, so at least he can’t do any more damage.”
“Did you report him to his supervisor?”
She looks away and says, “He’s got a copy of the police report, yes.”
I like the careful way she speaks. She’s better at this than she thinks.
“And the phone?” I ask.
“Also with the police.” She shakes her head. “What I really need is to get back to work.”
I look at Kat, thinking about how I want to respond. As much as I’ve enjoyed having her around, when Kat went dark, things got simpler. The next few weeks will require precise timing and a flawless performance. “Things are slow right now. I don’t have anything for you to do.”
“What about Ron?” she asks. “Won’t he buy something else?”
“Right now, he’s ahead in the polls, so he wants to wait. See if he might rather buy something in Sacramento.” I turn and straddle the bench so I’m facing her. “Listen, forget about Ron. Forget about the shit-paying job I gave you,” I say. “You have a chance to reinvent yourself. To step out of the person you’ve been told you are and become who you want to be. Write that novel. Go on safari. Buy a boat and sail to Hawaii. Do something big. Something daring. Surprise everyone, even yourself.”
“Is that what you’ve done?” she asks. “Is that what you’re doing?”
The weight of her question bears down on me. “I just sell real estate,” I finally say.
Kat looks down. “What if I’m just not a big, daring person with big daring ideas?” she asks.
“You figure out how you got that way. Go back in time, to the person who showed you that you couldn’t be one, and give yourself a do-over. You only get one life,” I tell her. “How do you want to live it?”