A public memorial, including a solemn march down Burnside Avenue, was staged by the euthanasia lobby, but Deirdre, Jackie, and Megan declined to attend. They’d had enough of the spectacle.
Sister Benedict Joan was there, praying for the soul of the man with whom she had inexplicably become obsessed, and praying for the souls of those who would treat life as if it was disposable. She was largely ignored.
After the media frenzy died down, Sister Benedict was summoned to the office of Cardinal Trippe. The video evidence of her behavior the night Jared Stone died had found its way to the Cardinal. He was speechless. He shook his head in disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Sister,” he said.
“You’re sorry, Your Grace?”
“To have misjudged you.” A golf-ball-sized lump formed in the Sister’s throat. “I’ve carved out a new assignment for you.”
“New assignment?” There was dread in the Sister’s voice.
It was the last the Lower 48 would see of Sister Benedict Joan. As penance for her actions, the Cardinal assigned her to a convent in Fairbanks, Alaska. Sister Benedict would spend the endless winter nights lamenting her involvement with Jared Stone and his family.
***
Ethan Overbee cursed and swore like a sailor as he drove his Tesla home from the studio, his meager personal possessions in two cardboard boxes. He had been escorted off the premises by security.
The previous sixty hours were a blur. He wasn’t really sure what had happened.
As his rage subsided, he started to go through his options. Without knowing or understanding he was doing it, Ethan had dropped back to the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. He thought, mostly subconsciously, about his safety. Check. Food, clothing, shelter. Check, check, check. His physical desire, however, was unsated. He picked up his cell phone and called Monique.
He got her voice mail.
“Hi, you’ve reached Monique. I can’t talk right now, so leave a message. And if this is my former boss, Ethan Overbee”—she emphasized the word “former”—“I hear they fired your sorry ass. Don’t fucking call me again.”
Ethan wanted to be mad at Monique, to ruin her, but he knew he was no longer in a position to ruin anyone, which stoked his fury all over again. He needed a way out of this nightmare. It was all the fault of that lunatic, Kingsborough. That was when the whole thing had started to go sour. Why the fuck would a billionaire playboy sneak into Jared Stone’s house in the middle of the night and stab the guy’s dog? Had the world gone mad?
At least Kingsborough would get what was coming to him. Sherman Kingsborough, Ethan knew, was being held without bail in a secure location, and he would soon go through the nightmare ordeal of trial, conviction, prison. “That poor jerk is in for a hell of a ride,” Ethan said aloud.
“A hell of a ride,” he repeated. When he went through the scenario in his head again, he smiled for the first time in days. He let out a whooping laugh, the cackle loud enough to be heard by two girls Rollerblading along the boardwalk that bordered the Pacific Coast Highway.
“A helluva ride!” he shouted as he picked up his cell phone again. This time, he dialed the number of a board member he knew over at the rival Global Television Network. Those guys, thought Ethan happily. Now, those guys have no soul.
But it was not to be.
Ethan Overbee shopped Busted, a reality show featuring Sherman Kingsborough, for nearly a year before giving up. No one was interested in Ethan or his show. He was persona non grata in the world of television production, and any project with his name attached was doomed to fail. With nowhere else to go and his tail between his legs, Ethan found his way to the last refuge of industry professionals. He was hired as the chief executive officer of the National Association of Television Executives.
***
Sherman Kingsborough is serving a twenty-year sentence for attempted murder in the first degree. He’s writing a book about his experience. It’s expected to fetch a seven-figure advance.
***
After the final episode of Life and Death aired, Deirdre and her lawyer drove to the main precinct of the Portland police station, where she surrendered herself to the authorities for the murder of her husband, Jared Stone.
The district attorney, a seasoned law enforcement official and a skilled litigator, had contacted Deirdre’s lawyer after word of her mercy killing reached his office, and suggested a quiet, benign meeting to discuss options.
He explained to Deirdre that while he didn’t agree with it, he had no choice but to prosecute.
Deirdre was processed and then released without having to post bail. Given the nature of her crime, the DA agreed with the judge that Deirdre didn’t pose a danger to herself or society, nor was she a flight risk.