Charles sat in the corner of a quiet Internet café in the harbor on Mustique, where he had put in, staring in horror at Karen’s latest message.

A collection of dreadlocked locals drinking Jamaican beer and a party of itinerant German surfers in tattoos and bandannas. He had a pressing fear, even here, that everything was closing in on him.

What? What do you know I’ve done, Karen? And how? Hidden behind his shades, he took a sip of a Caribe and read the message over for the tenth time. He knew she would keep at it. He knew her. This was no longer something he could just ignore.

And how in hell did you find me?

What do you want me to say to you, Karen? That I’m a bastard? That I betrayed you? Charles could sense the anger resonating in her words. And he didn’t blame her. He deserved whatever she felt. To have left them as he did. To have put them through that anguish. The loss of a husband, a father. Then, after it all finally subsided, to suddenly find out he was alive!

What do you know, Karen?

If you knew, truly knew, you would understand. At least a little. That it was never to hurt you. That would have been the last thing in my heart.

But to protect you, Karen. To keep you safe. To keep Sam and Alex safe as well. You would know why I had to stay away. Why, when the door opened and the path presented itself, I had to “die.”

The surfers were cackling loudly in German at something they had found on YouTube. A heavyset island woman in a colorful shift sat down across from him, towing a young daughter sipping on a Fanta. Charles realized he had spent so much of the past year hiding, in shadows, turning away from who he was. From everything he once loved.

But all of a sudden it was like he felt alive again. For the first time in a year! It was clear to him, you could never fully kill it. What was inside you. Who you are.

And now Charles realized that if he only touched this key, a flick of his hand, sent this message back, answered her, it reopened everything. The whole world changed again.

He took a swig of beer. Maybe it was time to move on again. To Vanuatu in the Indian Ocean. Or back to Panama. No one would find him. He had money there.

He lifted his shades. He looked closely at the words he had written. Pandora’s box was about to open again. For her and for him. And this time there would be no closing it. No sudden bomb blast interfering—nowhere to hide.

The hell with it, he said. He finished the last of his beer. She had found him. The iron fist in the velvet glove… he recalled fondly.

She would never let up.

Yes, I’m here. Yes, it’s me, he said. With one last reflection, he pushed the send key, sending his world spinning again.