The Never List

started to replace the album, I paused and pulled out that one photo of the two of us. I tucked it into my wallet and picked up my bag. Then I pushed the album far to the back, carefully closed the drawer, and smoothed my clothes. Jim was right. I did need some fresh air. I collected my things, double-checked my flight time and number, and put into my bag the sandwich I had wrapped earlier. I could do this.
    It was only as I triple-locked my apartment door from the outside, with my bright red suitcase at my feet, that I remembered I hadn’t called Dr. Simmons. Well, I shrugged, McCordy will tell her, and then we can talk about my avoidance strategies for three or four sessions. Nothing like a new narrative to keep the relationship alive.

CHAPTER 6
    I had never lost the trick of closing my eyes to shut out reality, and I spent most of my flight to Oregon with my cheek pressed against my inflatable pillow. The stewardess supposed I was sleeping, so other than the routine seat belt checks, she had left me alone. I had felt the anxiety rising up in my throat as the plane took off, but knowing I didn’t have time to waste with airport medics, I swallowed it back.
    In truth, though, I didn’t sleep at all. My heart was beating faster than ever. The sights and sounds of travel were overloading my brain, which hadn’t taken in this much visual and aural information at once in five years. But it was more than that. My mind was racing as I was hatching my plan.
    It would be a lot for me to meet with Sylvia, and I wondered if I was crazy to do this without Jim. But the FBI had spoken to Sylviabefore and had not been able to break through to her. Now Jack had made it very clear in his letter that she was his confidante. That she knew all the details of his past. I hoped coming face to face with his victim would make her realize whom she had really married, and that I could persuade her to reveal something she might not tell anyone else.
    I was staying in Portland, even though Keeler, where she lived, was about forty miles outside the city. It was a little inconvenient, but her town had only motels, and a door directly onto the outside world was a nonstarter. I had never been comfortable driving, even when I’d been in practice. But I was relieved to find that once I got behind the wheel, the habit came back to me, though every second put me on edge.
    I checked into the hotel without incident but also without grace. Unused to eye contact, I mostly stared down at my credit card, my hands, my suitcase. I hated the sound of the words “Caroline Morrow” as I choked them out. Ten years of it, and it still didn’t ring true to my ears. And it had never seemed fair that he had been able to rob me of my identity in such a profound way.
    Once in my room, I locked both locks, which I couldn’t help noticing were made by a cheap manufacturer. I berated myself out loud for being such a freak. Nevertheless, my first move was to find the hotel guide and memorize the locations of all emergency exits. I studied the map on the back of the door and picked up the phone handset to check for a dial tone. I took out my cell phone to charge it, even though it was nearly at full power. You could never be too careful.
    I had thought a lot about what I would say to Sylvia, and I ran over it all in my head again as I unpacked my clothes and laid them out on the bed to make sure, once more, that I hadn’t forgotten anything. Of course I hadn’t, so I showered quickly and set out on my journey. I wanted to make an initial run at it today and get back to the hotel before dark.
    I found Sylvia’s house without any trouble. A small, nondescript, brick ranch house in a quiet residential area. At first glance, it looked deserted. There were heavy curtains on the windows, all closed.
    I pulled into the empty driveway and quickly surveyed the premises. The garage doors in front of me looked as if they were sealed shut. I peered into their windows and saw that the space was neat as a pin. No car there, either. Along one wall, a wide assortment of household tools hung from a row of evenly spaced nails, their outlines traced carefully in marker. A bike in the corner had an obvious flat.
    All this way, and she wasn’t home.
    I walked around to the front door and rang the bell, just in case. I tried three times before I was convinced no one was there. I went back to the mailbox and, out of the corner of my eye, checked for signs of interfering neighbors