When You Come Back to Me (Lost Boys #2) - Emma Scott Page 0,112

in yesterday during the family gathering.

No one paid any attention to another mourner dressed in black.

No one noticed when I slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I walked home under a gray sky; an early morning walk-of-shame without the shame. Only a howling pain I pushed down. One that the voices in my head told me I deserved.

The big house was dark as I snuck into the guesthouse, moving quietly so as not to wake anyone. My bags were already packed, my trunk of journals already on its way to Bernie’s office in Paris until I had a place to crash.

My letter to Aunt Mags and Uncle Reg was written, thanking them for their hospitality and expressing my hope that I hadn’t been too much of a burden. The letter felt too light in my hand. Not enough. But they were getting their guesthouse back and were no longer shackled to Santa Cruz. They were free too.

I took a shower, washing River’s scents and cells off of me until there was nothing left, then dressed in slacks, a black turtleneck to conceal the bitemarks on my neck, and my long gray tweed coat.

The clock said I had twenty minutes before James arrived to take me to the airport for our last ride.

I sat down at my empty desk with pen and paper and wrote one final letter, sealing it just as James pulled up to the curb. I set both letters side by side on the desk, grabbed my rolling suitcases, and went out without looking back.

James hurried to meet me, helping me with my bags. He stowed them while I climbed in the back seat, my eyes on the big house. Like asking River to wake, I willed the back door to open, to see Mags and Reg come down the walk, waving and smiling their friendly smiles…

“Anything else, sir?” James asked, his gaze meeting mine in the rearview. “Anything left to do?”

“No,” I said. “There’s nothing left.”

Dear Beatriz,

I’m writing this in Portuguese because it’s only for you. If Mags or Reg read this, they’d think I’d been kidnapped by someone soft and sweet, and this was their ransom note.

Thank you, Beatriz. For pipoca. For peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. For asking “What is going to happen next?” at every movie we watched on Movie Nights. I liked our Movie Nights. I liked that it felt like you knew everything about me, and I didn’t have to say a word. Or explain. Or apologize.

Thank you for that.

And don’t worry about me. I don’t know what’s going to happen next; we’ll both just have to wait and see.

I will always be thinking of you and will try my best to behave.

But no promises.

With love,

Your Holden

Part V

Chapter Twenty-Six

One year later…

“That should do it,” I said, letting the hood of the ’67 Chevy Impala slam shut. “Give her a try, Julio.”

From his seat behind the wheel, the mechanic turned the key. The V8 engine roared to life. Julio flashed me a triumphant smile through the windshield.

He joined me to stand beside the boat of a car idling in the second garage I’d built on the shop last year. We studied the rest of the car with its dents, faded paint. The interior was going to be at least a month, not including tracking down sixty-year-old parts. But getting it driving came first, always. No one wanted an oversized toy that just sat in their garage. They wanted to show it off.

“Congrats, man,” Julio said. “You were right-on about the cylinder head.”

“You were right about everything else.” I clapped Julio on the back as he reached in to kill the engine.

Twenty years older than me, Julio Morales had already been the best mechanic in Santa Cruz, but it turned out he had a knack for restoration too. I studied on the side, practicing at home on a ’72 Chevelle while soaking up everything Julio had to show me at the shop.

We could only take one customer at a time—full restorations took months, and we still had the rest of the business to think of. But whenever it was slow, we slipped off to the second garage where I spent most nights and weekends.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice sounded from the main garage stalls. “Does anyone work here?”

Julio gave me a small smile. “He’s probably got the office door closed and can’t hear her. I got it.”

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. We’d both worked with my dad long enough to know he’d never make a