sly smile tugging at his lips. “I like tutus, remember?”
“This,” I say, standing, twirling, “is not a tutu. It’s a skirt.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes. Tutus aren’t soft.”
I lean in for a kiss, but he makes me wait for it.
“You don’t like soft?” I ask, brushing my lips against his.
He closes his eyes, a sound deep in his chest answering for him.
“I like soft,” I say, our exhales mingling. But he remains still, his self-control far too refined for my taste. So I stand and turn toward the door.
He grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. The porch swing squeals in protest, but I get my kiss. Or two.
Or twelve.
Canaan goes all out at dinner. Grilling up prime rib and corn on the cob, sprucing up potatoes and concocting a fruity iced tea drink.
“These things must be celebrated,” he says.
For his part, Marco is fairly subdued. Quiet and calm. His dragon-green eyes clear, clearer than I’ve ever seen them, actually. His hair is shorter, and he’s gained back some of the weight he lost during his imprisonment.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home?” I ask.
The four of us are at the kitchen table, reaching across one another for second helpings.
“It happened pretty quick. Last week the doc said he’d submitted a good report to the authorities, and this morning I woke to the news that the state was satisfied and now considered the matter closed.”
“Wow, just like that?” I ask.
“Yeah, just like that.”
“You weren’t guilty of the charges,” Jake says. “There’s no reason for the state to insist you stay any longer if the doctor’s satisfied.”
“That, and they finally got that Eddie punk talking. His parents had him lawyered up, I guess. Took the DA forever to unravel all the details, but once Eddie started talking, the state was able to put the pieces together. They found Horacio’s body in a separate warehouse, along with evidence that people had been held there against their will. They’re trying to gather enough information on Damien to start an official manhunt.”
I swallow the corn that’s been sitting on my tongue, refusing to make eye contact with anyone but Marco.
“Well, I wish them luck,” Canaan says. “I imagine catching someone like Damien would be a difficult task.”
After dinner, Canaan steps out. Says he needs to check in at work, whatever that means. I imagine he’s circling the skies over Stratus. I imagine he does that a lot.
Jake clears the table, leaving Marco and me to talk.
“I wanted to show you something, Elle,” he says, standing and moving to the living room. “You have a sec?”
“Sure.” I follow, watching as he pulls a blue-and-gray backpack up next to him on the couch and unzips it.
“Jake’s got a bag just like that,” I say.
“Not surprised. There were only three options at the sports store on Main, and one of them had a purple kitty cat on it. Anyway”—he pulls out a small leather journal, Ali’s journal—“Ali’s mom contacted me at the psych hospital.”
“Did she? That’s awesome.”
“Well, don’t get too excited. They haven’t agreed to see me, but she sent a card telling me they finally had the gravestone placed.” He opens the journal, flipping to the last quarter of the book, to empty pages Ali hadn’t gotten to.
Just the sight of all the days she’ll never have, all the journal entries she’ll never make, has my chest tight.
“What happened here?” I ask, running my finger along a half-inch strip of frayed paper near the seam. Several pages have been torn out.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Blank pages on either side. I never could figure it out.” He keeps flipping. “Here. I didn’t have my camera with me, but I did the best I could.”
It’s the sketch of a cemetery, of gravestones and trees. Of flowers and benches. It’s a place I’ve only been to once, but I can easily spot it in the lines of Marco’s sketch. I touch my finger to the place I stood at her funeral, under an umbrella, alone in my guilt and misery. He turns the page once more, showing me a sketch of Ali’s grave marker.
A ridiculous sort of laugh erupts from my throat. “Oh man, she’d hate that.”
A half smile emerges on Marco’s face. “That’s what I thought too. Rich people,” he says, shaking his head. The gravestone is huge. A gigantic stone tower formed into a triangular point at the tip top. “But look, I thought you’d like to see the engraving.”
I lean toward the page, reading