Old
It's not until several weeks after she's left the island and its shadowy corners and bitter, terrified, and bewildered henchmen and memories, both ugly and beautiful, far behind, that she manages to fully absorb the news of his death.
She's trying to will herself to sleep in the small, beautifully decorated apartment she's had since fresh out of college, very glad now for the strange compulsion that led her to mail the landlord the rent promptly at the beginning of each month for the past three years.
But now that it's hit, it's hit hard, and even though she thinks she probably couldn't move if she wanted to, she knows she won't be able to sleep for weeks thinking about it.
If she'd encouraged to give the plan a bit more polish, the accident could have been avoided.
If she hadn't shifted her loyalties to a man she barely knew and a family she didn't know at all, he might have gotten his moment and been content.
If she had stayed near him, he might not have tried to go after the child.
If she had told him years ago that the cape made him look even shorter, he would have flung it off in an instant.
She almost laughs at that thought, but loses the energy before she can form more than a weak cough.
Anyway, she decides, reaching decisively for a small bottle on her night table and carefully measuring out three of the little white pellets the doctor told her to use for occasional periods of insomnia and nightmares, it's late, and these thoughts are getting old.