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  He went through everything, and his notes seemed clear and specific. Peter’s morning meds, his breakfast, the first round of his stretching routine, all the normal things, were sandwiched between Ben’s worries and the time at which he’d gone to see if there was evidence of Grace returning. There were notes about lunch, calorie counts, their early walk, Bernie and Sriracha. Even about Peter clapping when Ben knew the right answer to Final Jeopardy! Everything was there. It was clear he’d gone out of his way to be thorough. He asked himself if there was anything he needed to add and he couldn’t come up with anything.

  Sometimes, despite his best efforts, things would slip through the cracks. He wouldn’t get a chance to make a note and then he’d forget to do it afterward. In some instances, he’d only realize later, when he got a phone call about a missed appointment or a message about refilling a prescription. Maybe Bernie would say something that triggered a memory. Once or twice that had even happened with Grace.

  His anxiety twitched more forcefully than it had in a long time. Was it all about Grace? Or was there something else? Maybe something he forgot or something he should have been able to figure out. He wished Rob would call him back. Maybe he still might. It was only a little after nine. Or, god, maybe Grace would just come home. That would be the best thing. Tell him she’d gone to see someone for a visit. A friend, maybe, or family.

  In the living room, he flipped the channels around on the TV. He had some things stacked up on the DVR. A few movies. Several episodes of Drunk History. Westworld. Stuff he always waited until after Peter’s bedtime to watch because it was too hard for him to follow or he just didn’t like it. Ben didn’t want to commit to any of those, though. He knew he’d be too distracted to pay attention, and he didn’t want to waste something good by watching it that way. One of the channels was showing The Shawshank Redemption, which he’d seen dozens of times, more than enough to pick up the story and follow along no matter how often his racing mind pulled his focus away from the screen. It had started half an hour earlier, and it distracted him for a while. Just after the sequence in which Brooks, the old man who has been in prison all his life and can’t adjust to life outside in the real world, gives in and hangs himself, Ben got up and went over to the mantel. He picked up his Lucited badge, took it to the shelf in the corner, and slid it out of sight behind the photo of his mother. The one where she was wearing the new lieutenant’s insignia on her LBPD uniform.

  Instead of going to bed after taking his meds and making what he expected to be the day’s last entry in his notebook, Ben went back into the living room and lay down on the couch. He thought about trying to find something else to watch, maybe the news and one of the late-night network shows. But that wouldn’t be good tonight. The anxiety was already roiling in his gut, and all the doomsday political reporting would just make it worse. Not even one of the comedy shows would help, because it would only be rehashing the same exhausting headlines. So he just left it on the same channel he’d been watching earlier. They were showing a Robert De Niro movie he didn’t recognize. It seemed like it was supposed to be funny.

  The first time is after only a few days. An early storm blew through the day before, but now the sun is shining bright, the way it only does when the sky’s been cleared by a good hard rain. Even though it’s cold outside, Peter wants to have his second Boost and coffee on the patio. He isn’t going to change his mind, so he bundles himself up in his warm fleece jacket and blue knit cap.

  You give him an old towel in case any rain has blown up under the patio roof onto the table and chairs and tell him to go ahead, you’ll be out in just a minute. It was a rough night and you are exhausted. Every time you managed to get to sleep, the bad dreams would come and you’d be up again. You went through five or six cycles, the agitation growing worse with each one. On your way into the bathroom, you pass your unmade bed and you’re tempted to climb back in. Even just half an hour would help. Peter wouldn’t mind. He likes it when you take naps or go out to run errands, because he knows it’s a break for you, a bit of time when you don’t have to worry about him. He hates that, how much you have to worry about him. But you know you’ll have to go back outside to tell him so he won’t just sit there waiting for you, and if you have to do that you might as well just sit down with him for a while. So you go to the bathroom, then put on long pants and a sweatshirt and head back.

  As soon as you get out of your bedroom door, though, you realize the dining-room door is still cracked open, and you hear him outside, laughing. You’re confused for a few seconds, then you hear Grace. She’s laughing, too, more softly than your father, but still loud enough for you to hear. You stop where you are and listen.

  Grace says something, then Peter does. You can’t quite make out the words, so you tiptoe closer to the door.

  “She died,” Peter says, not laughing anymore.

  “I’m so sorry.” There’s a tenderness in Grace’s voice that you haven’t heard before. You’re glad it’s there. You hadn’t really thought about her talking to him like this, without you to help facilitate the conversation. “When did it happen?”

  Peter doesn’t answer. You know he’s trying to figure out how long it has been since your mother’s death and that he has a hard time with things like that.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “You can tell me later.”

  You’re surprised. And pleased. You wonder if she’s cared for someone with dementia or memory problems before or if it’s just instinct. Usually when someone is talking to Peter and he struggles to remember some pertinent detail, the person he’s talking to will see he’s having trouble and say something like “It doesn’t matter” or “It’s not important” or “Don’t worry about it.” They’re trying to be kind. They don’t realize that what they’re really witnessing is him showing them that it does matter and it is important and he is worried. You know they’re decent people just trying to be polite and let your father off the hook, but every time someone does that to Peter, you want to break their fucking jaw.

  But “You can tell me later” is perfect. It says, What you’re saying is so important that I want to make a point of hearing it and I’m patient enough for you to tell me when you can.

  Peter says, “It was before.”

  “Before what?” You imagine you can hear Grace smiling.

  “Before Ben got hurt.” The tone in your father’s whisper is so broken that you don’t have to imagine anything at all.

  FIVE

  It was still dark outside when Ben woke on the sofa to find Peter sitting in his worn easy chair, watching him.

  “Hi.” Peter reached over and patted his foot on the end of the couch.

  “What time is it?”

  “Early.”

  “You okay?” Ben asked. “Have trouble sleeping?”

  “No. I wanted to get ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Is it today we go?” Peter raised his hand to his face and touched the edge of his eye.

  Shit. Was dad’s eye appointment today? Ben couldn’t remember. He sat up on the couch and tried to focus. It couldn’t be today, could it? He didn’t even know what day it was, at least not the date. The appointment was on Friday. He knew because he’d been telling Peter that all week. Whenever his father knew an appointment was coming up, he would always start asking about it a few days before. Honestly, sometimes it got to be a little bit annoying, but the truth was that they would have missed more than a few if not for Peter’s need to be reminded.

  In the kitchen, Ben flipped on the light switch and squinted at the brightness. He looked at the calendar page taped up on the cupboard. In the square for Wednesday the eleventh, he had written in Dr. Boswell 1:45. Was that today? He didn’t know. Where was his phone? He looked on the counter by the charger. Not there. He went into the bedroom and checked the nightstand. No. Shit. Where was it?

  He went back into the kitchen and Peter was still standing there. “Are you mad at me?” he asked.

/>   Ben stopped. Took a breath. “No, not at all.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I can’t find my phone.”

  “Do you have to call someone?”

  “No. I just wanted to see what today is. I’m not sure if it’s the day of your appointment.”

  Peter’s face lit up and he pointed at the Echo on the counter.

  Ben sighed. “Alexa, what day is it?”

  “Today is Tuesday,” she said. “January tenth.”

  Peter smiled.

  “Thanks, Dad.” He tried to smile back, but couldn’t quite manage it. “The appointment isn’t until tomorrow. One more day.”

  “Okay. One more day.”

  The clock on the microwave said it was 5:40.

  “What do you say we go back to bed for a while?” Ben said.

  “That’s good. You should sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  “I think I’m up.”

  Ben went into the kitchen and got breakfast started.

  His phone had been in the bathroom. He didn’t find it until after he’d gone back outside and checked for Grace. Of course, he’d seen nothing that suggested she or anyone else had been back to the studio. And there were no new texts or phone calls. Sitting on the toilet, he heard the morning’s first plane scream across the sky. He knew that meant it must be a few minutes after seven. The city’s noise-abatement ordinances limited the scheduled departure and arrival times. If the morning sun didn’t stir him enough to get out of bed, the first takeoff usually did. Now that he’d been up for an hour and a half, his anxiety had gotten a head start and was already trying to wrestle the morning out of his control.

  He opened the medicine cabinet and took a lorazepam. He’d just give it a little while to kick in and then he’d make the call.

  “I was a teacher,” Peter says.

  “Oh,” Grace says, “what did you teach?”

  Peter thinks about it, tries to come up with the words. You know you should give him more time before you say anything, that if he works for it he might be able to find the answer. “History,” you say, unable to bear the silence.

  This is the first time she’s had coffee inside at the counter with the two of you. It’s also the first time it’s rained since she started having coffee with Peter. You were surprised that your father walked out in the drizzle and invited her to join you. Usually he asks about things like that before he does them.

  The corners of her mouth turn up. “History was always one of my favorite subjects.”

  Peter smiles back at her.

  You think about throwing out that famous quote your father used to joke about, years ago, before his first surgery, when he couldn’t recall something, before either of you ever gave any serious thought to dementia as an everyday reality. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. But you catch yourself before you speak. Without any context, you think, you’d just sound like an asshole.

  “Ben?” your father says. You realize that he asked you a question and you were lost in your own head for a second.

  “I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

  He looks at Grace.

  She says, “Where did Peter teach?”

  “Long Beach City College,” you say, trying to hide your embarrassment. “Thirty years.” You take your cup and walk back around the counter into the kitchen for a refill. Holding up the coffeepot, you say, “Anybody else?”

  Peter nods.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Grace says.

  Ben breathed in, then out. Did it three more times. He had already keyed in the number. One more deep breath, and he sent the call. They picked up quickly, considering he was using the nonemergency number. When he said he needed to report a missing person and the dispatcher took his name, they transferred the call. They must have flagged him somehow. Or maybe the dispatcher recognized his name. Otherwise they would have just sent a patrol unit out.

  He was on hold for a while, then a sergeant whose name he didn’t recognize answered, and he said it again. “I need to report a missing person.”

  “Can I have your name, sir?” Ben figured the man on the other end of the line already had it, or he wouldn’t even be talking to a sergeant at all.

  “Benjamin Shepard.” There was a pause. Why? Had he been wrong about them knowing who he was? He’d never had grandiose delusions before.

  No.

  The sergeant recognized his name. He’d almost surely been with the department long enough to remember. It took a long time to make that rank.

  “I’m sorry for the delay. The computer’s running slow today.” He asked Ben a few questions and told him he’d have someone out to the house as soon as he could to make a full report.

  After the call was finished, Ben wondered if the sergeant really had known his name. Everybody did for a while. It was a huge story, made the national news. Two detectives shot. One killed, the other survived an injury that should have been the end for him, too. Even if the sergeant didn’t know his name off the top of his head, he must have figured it out. Missing-persons reports were usually only a high priority if they involved a child or someone with diminished capacity or if there was evidence of foul play. Not when a landlord hadn’t seen a renter for a while.

  But they were prioritizing this. Why else would they do that if not because of his past? Honestly, though, he was less worried about them remembering the incident and patronizing him than he was about them seeing the records for all the false reports he had called in when his meds weren’t working, before the doctors figured out the particular cocktail of antidepressant and antianxiety and antiseizure and anti-mood-swing drugs that would stabilize him. For those first few months after he came home, he’d had manic episodes that filled him with paranoia. He’d also sometimes forgotten he wasn’t a cop anymore. There were calls reporting prowlers. Calls about people stealing his identity. Calls requesting officer assistance. He even tried to have his father arrested once. For Ben, that was the worst part of the whole thing. It was the only time through all of the ordeal that he’d felt genuinely ashamed.

  He just hoped they would send someone he didn’t know. Someone who didn’t know him.

  “Dad?” he said, walking into the living room.

  Peter was on the floor, doing his exercises. He stopped and looked up at Ben.

  “Someone from the police department is going to be here soon.”

  “Is something wrong?” Peter got to his feet and started rolling up his exercise mat. His spryness was impressive. Physically, aside from stomach and eye problems, he was in great shape. The last time they’d been in for a primary-care visit, Dr. Matthews had asked him if he’d had any falls since the last time he came in. Ben told him he hadn’t and tried to make a joke about the fact that he himself had fallen twice in that same time frame. But the doctor knew Ben’s history, too. Nobody laughed.

  “Well,” Ben said, “I’m getting a little worried about Grace. They’re going to help us figure out if she’s okay.”

  “She’s not okay?” The worry in Peter’s voice raised it an octave.

  “I’m sure she is, Dad. We just want to be certain.” He could tell his father was getting anxious. So was he.

  “His teeth are bad, too,” you say.

  “So that’s why he eats so much yogurt and oatmeal?” Grace asks.

  “Yeah. He has partial dentures. He only has his real teeth right up in front.”

  “I was wondering about that. He doesn’t like to wear the fake ones?”

  “They hurt him. He has to keep them in a couple of hours every day to support the ones he’s still got. It stops them from shifting and getting worse. At least, that’s what his dentist says.”

  “You take good care of him,” Grace says.

  You can’t quite read her expression. It’s almost as if there’s a sense of wonder there, but some kind of sadness, too.

  “You’re a good son,” she says.

  “Do you know who I am?” B
en asked, regretting his choice of words even before they were out of his mouth.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Detective Becerra said. He was shorter than Ben had expected.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I didn’t mean—there’s not . . .” He could feel the words slipping out of his control. Deep breath. In. Out. “You can’t really say that without sounding like an asshat, can you?”

  “Most people can’t.” The detective raised his black eyebrows, then his expression fell and became more serious. “I was there that night.”

  “Oh. Wow.” Ben didn’t know what to say. A lot of cops were there that night. He never knew what to say to them. Thank you? I’m sorry? “That was a rough night for a lot of people. I’m probably lucky I can’t remember any of it.”

  “We remember it.”

  Ben wanted to change the subject, to talk about Grace. This was exactly why he’d been hoping they’d just hand his call off to a routine-patrol unit. He should have known that wouldn’t happen. He didn’t try to shift the gears, though. It would go better if he let Becerra guide the conversation. Interviewing and interrogation had always been one of Ben’s strengths as a detective. He didn’t want Becerra to be concerned about how to handle him. The focus needed to be on Grace, not the cop who got shot in the head. And it had to be clear that this wasn’t just another paranoid delusion. He knew he needed to be taken seriously.

  Becerra was on the ball enough to sense that Ben didn’t have much more to say about himself. “Tell me about her,” he said.