She remembered the humidity of that coastal town. She remembered the way the air tasted like brine and jasmine. Most of all, she remembered the version of Jane Goldberg who laughed loudly and didn't check her watch every fifteen minutes. That Jane had stayed behind in that cottage, buried under the floorboards of a life she was told she wasn't allowed to want.
The drive toward the coast would take fourteen hours. Jane Goldberg didn't mind. For the first time in twenty years, she wasn't counting the minutes; she was finally making them count.
The key was heavy, brass, and cold. Taped to it was a small scrap of paper with a single line of coordinates.
Jane reached the elevator and pressed the button for the garage. She felt the weight of the brass key in her pocket, a secret heat against her hip.
The photo was a Polaroid, the colors bled out by time. It showed a younger Jane, her hair wild and salt-crusted, standing in front of a turquoise cottage she hadn't thought of in two decades. Beside her stood a man whose face had been carefully folded out of the frame.
She didn't pack a suitcase. She took her coat, her car keys, and the brass key. As she walked past the receptionist, who offered a standard "Goodnight, Ms. Goldberg," Jane didn't offer her usual polite nod.
"I won't be in tomorrow, Sarah," Jane said, her voice sounding steadier than it had in years. "Oh? A vacation?"
Jane looked at her computer screen. A spreadsheet was open, demanding her attention for the morning’s board meeting. Hundreds of millions of dollars in assets were balanced in those cells. If she left now, the anchor would drop, and the Goldberg ship might veer off course.
