The Never List

stared for a moment at the tiny yard, a smudge of tan on the screen, where surely he must walk every day. I could just make out the indistinct image of the guard tower, and even the minuscule line marking the boundaries of the prison with what must be razor wire. I shut down the Web page with a shudder. I didn’t want to push my psychological limits too soon.
    I hadn’t even been back to the state since my escape, and I had solemnly vowed never to return. But Jack’s letter made me realize what the price of my inaction might be. Even the remotest possibility of his release stirred up emotions I’d been fighting back for years and forced me to confront what I knew I finally needed to do, no matter how terrifying.
    At Jack’s trial, the prosecutors had “been pragmatic,” they’d “done what they could.” And their strategies had worked to an extent; he was in jail, after all. But that didn’t change the fact that Jennifer’s story had been left open-ended, a case that might never be closed. Over the years I’d come to accept it somewhat, thinking there was nothing I could do. But Jack’s letter made me believe that Sylvia might be the key to it all, that she might know something concrete. Now duty was calling me, and for the first time in ten years, I felt I could answer it. Maybe it was all that therapy finally working after all. Or maybe somehow I knew this mission was the therapy.
    Before my courage could fail me, I pulled up another Web siteand booked my flight, a room in the nicest hotel in the area, and, pausing, a rental car, knowing that as much as I hated to drive, there was zero chance I could get into a cab. I booked under Caroline Morrow, my “real” name now. My practical side was taking over. I started making lists.
    This would be the first trip I’d taken in five years, since visiting my parents back in Ohio, and, frankly that hadn’t gone very well. Despite the ensuing three-hour layover in Atlanta, I had booked a flight that put me on a Boeing 767 because it had the lowest mechanical failure rate in the fleet. Even with that security, I’d had a full-blown panic attack as I’d boarded. The airline crew had forced me to deplane, thereby delaying the flight and raising the ire of a number of vocal passengers, who would have, I’m sure, been much more understanding if they’d known my real name and remembered me from the newsstands. I’d had to wait six more hours at the airport before the paramedics were convinced I could keep it together enough to get on a later flight.
    This time my rigid aircraft requirements put my detour through Phoenix, and the circuitous route would take me a full twelve hours, six hours longer than was strictly necessary for efficiency’s sake, but nevertheless utterly required for my mental condition.
    I packed light but well. The next day, as I clicked my suitcase shut, I felt, once again, fully prepared. Ready. Sure of my mission. And then, as had happened last time, right before walking out the door, I felt that old familiar feeling—thoughts spinning, chest tightening. I fought it back, but as I struggled for breath, I made my way back to my bedroom, over to the white-painted bureau.
    I pulled out the bottom drawer, the one I never looked in anymore, and dragged out a battered blue photo album. It fell open naturally to a page in the center, and in the upper-right-hand corner, under the peeling laminate, there she was, Jennifer, at thirteen.
    Above her unconvincing smile, her eyes looked sad, as they alwayshad in the years after the accident. She looked serious, as if she were thinking hard. I was standing next to her, leaning over, caught there with my mouth open, talking to her animatedly. She was lost in her own world, and I hadn’t even noticed.
    I studied the picture of myself at that age. Despite our fears, I looked so confident, happy even. Now, sitting safely in my room, if I leaned back on the rug, I could see myself at thirty-one in the mirror over the bureau. My sharp, angular features had been softened somewhat by age, but my dark brown hair was the same shoulder-length no-muss-no-fuss bob I’d had since high school. My brown eyes looked nearly black against my pale skin that had only the pink flush of panic to infuse it with life. I looked distraught, even when I forced a smile back at myself. No wonder they deliver up the shrink to my door, I thought, looking at the frightened creature staring back at me.
    Slowly I stood up, and as I