She decided to take a run in the Park.

“Where in the pa…” Jenna asked, looking at her in surprise, as she slung her bag on her shoulder, in the middle of texting the artists that she was about to meet the gallerist.

“Reservoir,” Bette answered, anticipating Jenna’s question, as she opened the front door of the flat, shooting her a quick, apologetic smile.  Just before shutting the door behind her, she said over her shoulder, “I’ll probably head to The:Core after the run, to take a shower and grab a bite to eat, since I’ll be there, anyway.”

She knew Jenna meant well, but Bette’s mind was exhausted, and she needed to let her mind go into “free association” mode, and explore the tangle of thoughts that threatened to tie themselves in knots if she didn’t get a hold of them.  She decided not to respond to Jenna’s text about looking for someone who could join Bette in The:Core.   Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Sylvia’s death wasn’t caused by a random aneurysm, or a heart stoppage.  Until she could allay her fears, she didn’t want any more of her friends to be exposed to whatever dangers seemed to be closing in on her.  Several days ago, when she felt she was really up against it while decoding a particularly difficult set of numbers regarding 1942-43, she was sorely tempted to bring Jenna in.  She knew that her friend’s quick mind would be big help to Bette at this stage.  But … Sylvia’s death just didn’t feel right. 

At the service Sylvia’s heart doctor admitted that Sylvia was due, at some point, for another check-up to determine whether she’d need a surgical procedure that would take care of the arterial wall that looked like it was beginning to show signs of weakening.  “But they were very, very early signs.  I talked to her about it a few months ago, but frankly, she wasn’t concerned, and she seemed the sort to worry about aches and pains.  I have patients who were much worse off …” he was explaining to Tom and Andy. 

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Bette took the last step of the stairwell to emerge into the street level, and reeled a little from the blast of heat radiating from the black tar and surrounding buildings.  She exchanged a small smile with a couple of suited men, who were in the middle of shedding their jackets as they walked around her.  Like the men, people around them were moving about like wilted flowers – the mini-heat wave over the past few days had done a real number on Manhattan, and its weary citizens were rapidly tiring of the oppressive weather.  Bette stopped at a corner store to buy a cold bottle of water to take with her on her run.