White Space Season 1

kingdom was built on hubris and treachery, which Jon wanted nothing to do with.
    Jon had squirmed free from nearly every obligation that would have pulled him back to Hamilton Island. But Sarah was dead, an accidental victim in a school shooting, and he never would’ve forgiven himself if he didn’t go to her funeral.
    She was, after all, the one that got away.
    Well, he got away. She stayed put. But now that she was gone, it felt as if some future he imagined someday having with her, was now dead, too.

    **

    The plane landed. Jon drove a rented Toyota Avalon to the ferry, then watched the island grow larger against the darkening sky as the ferry inched him closer to Hamilton Island and the countless memories he’d love to forget.
    Forty five minutes later, Jon parked his car at the Sands of Time hotel.
    Jon walked directly to the counter, dropped his bag at his feet, then glanced at the name on the hotel clerk’s badge and said, “Hi there, Lydia, I believe my assistant reserved the top floor for me? Under the name John Kafka.”
    Lydia looked him up and down, as she tried and failed to keep her mouth jaw from dropping lower. She stuttered before finding her voice, then looked Jon in the eye and said, “Of course, Mr. Conway. Er, I mean, Mr. Kafka.”
    Jon smiled, then shook his head and softly said, “Thank you.”
    Lydia smiled, typing on her keyboard.
    “How many keys will you be needing, Mr. Conway?” Then after a moment added, “There are 10 rooms total.”
    “Can I get two cards, all keyed to all the rooms?”
    “Sure,” she smiled, then giggled, twirling a finger through her long dark hair. “At least I think so. I’ve never done this before.”
    After a few minutes, she handed Jon two cards, and smiled. She was cute, likely in her mid-twenties, too cute to be working behind the desk of a hotel on Hamilton Island. But he kept such thoughts to himself. This wasn’t a pleasure trip. And while a night with Lydia could be fun and relaxing, the days after would be problematic and not worth the trouble.
    After another minute spent finding out if there were any new restaurants on the Island, Jon was waiting for the elevator to ding, then open to his private floor. He was exhausted, but wasn’t sure if he should get to bed early and wait to see everyone at the memorial in the morning, or catch up with Sarah’s twin sister, Cassidy, first.
    Last he’d heard, Cassidy was still working at The Shipwreck, an appropriately enough named bar in the south end of the island. Of course, the last time he’d run into Cassidy, she’d been rude, probably holding a grudge for how things went bad between him and Sarah.
    The elevator dinged and Jon decided that he was too exhausted to subject himself to Cassidy’s anger, which would likely even be worse following the death of her sister. Though the twins fought as often as he had with his own family, Cassidy and Sarah actually had something the Conways didn’t — love that bonded them together despite their differences.
    Jon crossed the hall, slipped his keycard into the door, dropped his bag by the door, then collapsed onto the king-sized bed, fully clothed. He was sound asleep two minutes later.

    * *

    Wednesday afternoon
    September 6

    Jon sat two rows from the rear pew, in the back of Great Endeavor Church, a non-denominational church which was also the island’s biggest , and had that classic New England church architecture that Jon admired, though he’d never been particularly religious. This had also been his church, though only from age eight to 12 or so, during the time his parents enrolled him in Sunday school. Of course, they rarely went to church, themselves, usually having their driver drop him off.
    He flashed back decades to the many Sundays he sat next to Sarah, and sometimes Cassidy, trying not to giggle as Pastor Avery preached. They’d never been able to go a whole service without getting a stern look from the pastor.
    Jon’s trip down memory lane was cut short when he realized that Pastor Avery was looking at him as he addressed the congregation. Jon wondered what the old man must’ve though of him — the godless heathen given to a life of excess and sin has come home to reap what he’s sewn.
    But the pastor wasn’t that kind of man. He was serious, but kind, not someone who’d remind you that you of your sins when tragedy struck. The only person singing in that guilty choir was Jon’s conscience.
    This was the fourth service