Saturday, June 9, 3:32 p.m.
I go about my life. I don’t hear from Leo or Christopher or The Chief or Coroner Dekins. I can’t remember Lucy’s cell phone number and Jack’s isn’t showing up in my phone’s call records.
I was in Ballard last month, working on an article. After wrapping up the interview, I tried to find Jack’s house amid the tangle of Scandinavian post-WWII architecture, but I didn’t have GPS in the press car that day and Leary Way no longer seems to be a cross street of 21st Avenue N.W.
It’s almost like none of it happened.
But I swear, it’s all true.
The End
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