Bonus #2: Stride remembers the death of his wife Cindy

Warning: Don't read these scenes unless you've already read the book! These scenes give away many of the secrets behind the twists and turns of IMMORAL.

There were only two women who mattered to Stride anymore. And he was losing both of them.

He sat in a little wooden chair, rickety and uncomfortable, pulled up by the side of the bed. The room was obscenely warm, at least eighty degrees. Frost caked the window behind him, and he could hear the hiss of wind and snow outside, where the January temperature had plummeted below zero. But none of the cold could be felt inside. Here he felt clammy in all the creases of his skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

The nurses didn't seem to mind. They flitted in and out, comfortable, as if the window were open and cool spring air were blowing in. They didn't look at him, except for one, who squeezed his shoulder from time to time. She was nice. Olivia was her name, about twenty-three years old, with mousy brown hair that she pushed nervously back behind her ears. Unlike the others, Olivia was young and hadn't seen this scene re-played a thousand times.

Stride held Cindy's hand, where it had come out of the blanket. He couldn't believe how cold her fingers were in such a hot room. Three blankets covered her, pulled up to her chin. It was hard to tell where the white blankets ended and her skin began. Her cheeks, once bright and full of color, had collapsed against the bones of her face, and the blood had drained away. Her eyes were closed. She slept most of the time now, thanks to the morphine. Pain management, they called it. Her breathing was slow and forced. Each time her chest swelled, her sunken lips twitched.

He had never felt so helpless in his life. All he could do was keep talking, like he was conducting a filibuster against death. If he just kept talking, then it couldn't creep in and take her.

But what else could he talk about except the other woman in his life, Kerry McGrath, who made him feel just as helpless.

Their stories had begun almost at the same time. First Kerry disappeared. And then three days later, in the midst of the investigation, Cindy noticed blood in her urine. It wasn't necessarily an uncommon side effect to the fertility drugs she was taking. It wasn't necessarily anything to worry about. She didn't insist that Stride go with her to the doctor's office. And with the investigation at its peak, he didn't go.

He didn't go again when she went back for the next series of tests.

He didn't go when the doctor finally told her there was nothing ordinary about it. It was aggressive ovarian cancer, metastasizing like a colony of bugs inside her, eating away at her organs. He wasn't there when Cindy swallowed and asked calmly what her treatment options were, and he couldn't hold her when the doctor simply said, "None."

It seemed impossible. He came in at two in the morning, barely able to keep his eyes from drooping shut, frustrated after pursuing hundreds of leads that had gone nowhere. Instead of finding his wife sleeping, Cindy was sitting in bed, waiting for him, her legs crossed, a smile plastered on her face. He was glad. He needed to vent. He didn't even remember her appointment.

He went on and on for ten minutes, with Cindy smiling, nodding, and pretending to laugh. And then when he was done, she told him.

"It's not good news," she said.

He stared at her, confused. "What's not?"

"The doctor," she said, and Stride felt a chill even before she continued. "He says he thinks I've only got a couple months."

Then the veneer cracked, and she began sobbing, wailing, holding out her arms for him. Stride stood there, unable to move. He couldn't even go to her. He shook his head, not believing it. She was the same Cindy he had loved for ten years. She was young, vibrant, and beautiful. She was alive. There was no way — no way — that any of that could change.

And three months later, here he sat.

Talking.

Filibustering.

"We're back to the list of sex offenders," he told her, his voice cracking, as if he were relating a normal police story on a normal day. "I know we've been through it four times already. There are at least a couple where the alibis aren't solid. We've been using their photos to re-interview people up and down Highway 61. We've got photos of their cars, too, in case anyone remembers seeing them. The trouble is, the guys aren't even local. One is from Hibbing, and the other's from Silver Bay. There's nothing at all to suggest they were anywhere near Duluth at the time Kerry disappeared, but we can't conclusively prove they were anywhere else. But we have to be careful. We used the photo of one low-level sex offender, then later found out his alibi checked. It was too late, though. People found out we were asking about him. Someone burned his house down. Can you fucking believe it? They just burned his house down."

He didn't know if Cindy heard him. Every now and then, her eyes fluttered open, slowly, as if even that were an effort. She stared sightlessly into space. At those moments he paused, until in the silence all he heard was Cindy's labored breathing. Then he started talking again.

"Mags thinks whoever it was burned the body. You know Mags, she's always gruesome about it. What I can't stand is that I have to talk to Kerry's parents like the girl is still alive, and here we are at the station, speculating about what the guy did with the body after he killed her. I know there's no hope."

He stared down at Cindy.

"I know there's no hope," he repeated.

He looked away, out the window again, where the world kept going.

"Jonny," she said.

He looked back, hopeful. Every time she spoke, he believed again that she would be fine. But when he saw her, his hopes were dashed again. Her eyes were open. The fire in them was gone. Her voice was no louder than the rustle of paper.

He put a big smile on his face and tried like hell not to cry. He had to find something to say, because if he kept talking, everything would be all right. He couldn't stop now. He opened his mouth and thought of all the reassurance he could give her, or how she looked stronger, or how much he loved her. He could talk about the weather and how cold it was. He could reminisce about the time they had gone camping, and she had forgotten the stakes for the tent, and they had slept happily under the stars until it rained on them. There was so much to say. If he could say it, if he could find the words, then time would be suspended. But he couldn't. He sat there, a stupid grin on his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He held her hand in a grip so tight he knew it had to be hurting her. But he refused to let go.

She could read him. She always could. Even behind those sunken eyes, she saw into his soul. There she was, on the threshold of crossing so far before her time, and she was thinking of him, trying to comfort him.

Talk, he thought.

He couldn't. He heard her breathing catch. Each breath was a labored effort. Each one came a little harder and a little farther apart.

Her lips moved. She murmured something he didn't understand. Stride leaned closer. The sight of her skin, and the smell of disease lingering on her body, crushed him. It wasn't his battle to fight, and that was what was so awful. He was a bystander in the worst event of his life.

She tried again. He tried to hear her.

"It's okay, Jonny," she said.

It was a whisper that didn't sound like her at all. He didn't understand. She couldn't be telling him that everything was all right, because nothing was all right anymore. But for an instant, he saw a glimmer in her eyes that reminded him of who she once was.

She spoke again. It was a terrible effort for her.

"It's what I want now."

He nodded. He could never accept it, but she could. She had to. There was no other choice.

He leaned even closer now and brushed his lips against hers. When he moved back, her eyes were closed again. He held her hand, but he didn't feel her holding back anymore. The gasping, painful sound of her breath was gone, replaced by peaceful silence. He sat there, staring at her, and he found he could talk again. He told her how cold it was. He reminded her of that camping trip and how they had laughed together. He told her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. He was still talking when the doctors came and led him away.

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