chapter one

San Francisco, California, 2012

The damp metal nudges me forward, the waves open their welcoming fingers, the night’s darkness offers to hide my shame. All whisper a single question that reaches up through the fog and catches in my throat. If I, Katie Connelly, were to jump from this bridge tonight, would my death matter?

Father Muldowney, my priest, says life is precious. He quotes a sixteenth-century monk who said, “’Midst all our frailty, fault, and sin, shines our heart, a light therein. E’er we must then stay the end, and cherish life to live again.” I wonder if when the poet wrote those words, he knew what it was like to lose every person dear to him.

In truth, I didn’t come to jump. I came only to glimpse death, to gauge his strength, to know what I can expect when it’s my turn. I decide to crawl back over the railing and return home, but as I twist around, the steel beneath my feet trembles and I lose my grip. My feet slide out from under me and I stumble. I flail for the railing, but it’s too late. I collapse into the clouds as the dank sea air rushes past.

I don’t fear death—until my father calls from the bridge above.

“Katie, where are you?”

I scream for him as I descend, but the wind swallows my cry. I yell louder, but the sound falls with me.

“Katie?”

When they find my body, he will think that I jumped. I can’t have him believe that I jumped!

More than anything, I want to live. I wish to be back with my father, to tell him he’s important, to let him know that I love him—but my wishes are worthless.

After hitting the surface, I’ll plunge deep into the blackness of the bay. For any hope of survival, I’ll need to take a deep breath just before impact. I try to suck in air, but my chest tightens and my lungs freeze. I writhe and struggle. I tumble and fall, desperate for one more breath that never comes.

It’s always the same when I awake. My sheets are wet; I shiver and my chest heaves as I gasp for air. It’s a terrible dream, a horrendous nightmare, yet I despair every time I awake and it comes to an end.

In my dream . . . my father is still alive.

• • •

My birth name is Katherine Ann Connelly, though most people call me Katie. I work in the history department at San Francisco State University as a research assistant. It’s a solitary job, but it suits me.

In truth, I should be the one directing the research projects. At twenty-six, I have two undergraduate degrees and a master’s degree I finished last spring. I didn’t plan to live the life of a professional student. I’ve just been a tad lost since my father’s death two years ago last April. He was a hard man to give up.

My boss, Professor James Winston II, has just handed me a research request. He’s a good friend, a second father, and I’m sure he believes this assignment will help me in a therapeutic sort of way. He means well, but he should stick to history.

It seems the university was asked by the Golden Gate Commemorative Society to prepare a packet of information for the state’s school system. Our portion will be a booklet titled Our Heritage: A History of the Golden Gate Bridge.

I’m concerned about this particular assignment because of my father and the memories it will dredge up. You see, my father worked on the bridge for twenty-nine years of his life. Professor Winston says that’s why I’d be perfect, because I already know so much about the structure. Of course, he also tells me that I need to date, that I should find a good man.

The professor is full of nonsense.

Speaking of nonsense, I talk to him—my father, I mean. I have conversations with him as if he were still here. Sometimes, I even think I can feel him near. Other times, after I catch myself talking to a dead person, I realize that I may be stepping a bit over the crazy line, and I do my best to jump back. It’s been a little over two years, and I know it’s time to get over losing him—it’s time I get on with life. I’ve even considered moving, getting away from the bridge, the university, the city, the memories. But each time I think that I’ve banked enough courage, I come up wanting.

I don’t date much; I don’t get asked. I’m sure it’s my fault, though don’t misunderstand: I look after myself, I watch what I eat and stay fit, and men do seem to find my athletic build and slim features attractive. The fact is, I’m miserable to be around—not in a rude sort of way, but in a lonely sort of way.

Enough about my better traits and back to matters at hand . . . I have until three today to get back to the professor before he assigns the project to another researcher. As I look over the project’s notes, as I study the scope, I can see that I’d be perfect for it. I spent my childhood at the bridge. My father’s stories about the structure have been ingrained in my head since I could crawl. I said that he worked on the bridge, but more than that, he loved the bridge.

My father also died there.