The fall out is instantaneous and devastating. 

Massey's found in the Bay as Magda predicted; a floater.  He was considerate enough to leave behind a signed confession detailing he murdered his sister to the tune of three million deposited in his bank account because she discovered various illegal activities her husband was involved in, including money laundering, insider trading and several business ventures which concerned under age girls and various illegal narcotics.  It's hard to hate the guy after he's dead.  At least not once I hear in court that he also admitted to tampering with the narcotics in the evidence locker and deliberating maligning Inspector Exstead because his brother in law wanted her off the force. 

Chandler resigned within hours of the discovery of Massey's body and confession; he's doing fifteen to twenty in a white collar country club atmosphere.  I hope the Club Soda's flat.

It doesn't seem like nearly enough.

Sylvie lived. 

I get mail every month or so from Magda of all people.  At first I think it's something she's doing to gloat, slap me in the face long distance.  It isn't as if pictures of Jinny looking haggard, yet grinning as she spoon feeds baby food into Sylvie's mouth are pleasant for me to look at. 

It isn't until I realize Jinny is grinning as she spoon feeds Sylvie that I grasp what Magda's trying to show me. 

There's one brief scrawled note on the back of a photo that sums the whole thing up. 

Finn...  you did good. 

I take that one in and get Wal Mart to make a negative off it, then blow it up to an 11X20 and have it framed. 

They're at the beach; there's ink on the back telling me it was taken in San Diego.  The sand is white and the sun looks hot and the sky and water merge into a seamless, inescapable blue.  And Jinny is in a two piece suit that matches it and Sylvie...  Sylvie's in mermaid green, still in her wheelchair, but smiling this time as well.  She is so breathtakingly beautiful that it s impossible to hate her.  The silvery white hair floats around her head in a cloud and Magda's son Benjamin is on her lap and there's sand caught in mid-air because Jinny has just popped the wheelchair backwards in a wheelie~~  all three of them are grinning hugely.

I did good.  I did what was right and I did it even though it cost me more than I am personally willing to spend time figuring out.

I sneak into Angelo's room that night.  The four of us have a house out on Lake Travis; I'm almost okay with calling S'Phear ' Michael' and the fact that he works for Dell out in Round Rock.  Avery is even more beautiful with child.  They keep threatening to name the baby after me and I keep urging them to go investigate other toilet franchise options. 

"I meant the Huckleberry part, you nimrod," Avery tells me exasperated and I roll my eyes right back as I respond. 

"So did I."

Angelo has two galleries now; one in Austin and the other in San Antonio along the River Walk.  He does hair and cosmetic consults at three hundred dollars an hour and sketches the clients before and after.  The drawings are then auctioned off for celebrity ventures because the majority of his clients have names instantly recognizable.  Angelo requests the money all go back into charity; Avery keeps his books and assures me he's worth a million already.

He doesn't sleep like a millionaire. 

I stop for a second once inside the room which is large and done in some Angelo inspired combo of Marilyn and the Muppets.  I pad cautiously across the slick wooden floor and lay one knee onto the bed sheets which are decorated with Bert, Ernie and Big Bird manning red choo choo trains and Angelo sighs deeply and turns, opening huge dark eyes to gaze at me in silence.

"Say it," he orders me, voice cranky with sleep and when I say I was just checking on him, he grabs me, tickles my ribs mercilessly for a full sixty seconds and then stops.

"Say it," he orders again, fingers poised and my eyes fill up and spill over. 

"I need to snuggle somebody, okay?" 

He turns, smiling, and holds me, pulling Sesame Street up to our ears. 

"I did the right thing," I whisper after a few moments.  Then quaver out, "Right?"

He kisses the back of my head and cuddles me closer. 

"You did what you had to do.  I can't know if it was 'right' or not."

Honesty, like sobriety, is brutal.

I cry then; hard.  Angelo sighs and holds me through it, turns me to him and wipes the tears from my face with his fingers, so gentle.

It makes no sense to me that people like me better weak. 

"Silly," he says, voice silky as he cuddles closer, "I never knew you any different."

END OF SEVENTY NINE