I’ve looked inside the chest. Months since I’ve seen the ring that’s to be mine.
I turn my gaze on the chest and focus.
But nothing.
The sides don’t thin out, they don’t become transparent like every other surface when focused upon. I try harder, stepping closer to the chest.
Zip.
Zilch.
Strange.
I move toward the chest, slowly, very aware that this is not my room. But I’m trying to understand. The chest was given to Canaan by the Throne Room. Does that mean it’s impenetrable?
I kneel and place my hands on the lid, lifting and shoving at the same time. The smell of wet grass and spicy evergreens wafts from within, and for the first time in forever I look forward to the autumn. To cooler weather.
“Hey!” a voice calls from the living room. “Anybody here?”
It’s Marco.
Shoot.
I slide the lid shut and yank the halo from my head. I stare at it, willing it to move faster.
Come on!
As soon as it’s reformed, I jam it onto my wrist and head for the door.
“Yo, intruder?” Marco calls again. “You left the door open, and I’m a paranoid ex-con. I’d answer if I were you. You don’t want me going psycho on your—”
“Yeah, Marco,” I yell. “It’s just me. I’m here.”
“Brielle?” he says, his voice closer.
We meet in the hallway near the office door.
“It’s me,” I say. “And you’re not an ex-con.”
“Tell that to the talking heads.”
“Yeah, well, it seems truth depends on who’s holding all the facts these days.”
He looks at me through waves of black hair. “Jake told me about your mom, er, her grave. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” I step past Marco and into the kitchen.
“You really think your dad buried an empty casket?”
I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. “He did. Told me he did, anyway. You want?” I say, offering Marco the bottle in my hand.
He takes it and sits at the kitchen table. “Why would he do that?”
I shrug. I don’t want to give Dad’s excuses credence by bantering them about.
“You not talking to him?”
I take a swig. “Jumped out the window instead.”
“Ah. Jail break.” Marco removes the lid from his water bottle and spins it on the table. It spins, spins, spins—longer than I would have thought possible, his long fingers nudging it as it slows. “Been there. Done that.”
“Any advice for a first-timer?”
He stops the lid with his palm.
“Nah. Well, just that sooner or later you have to face the music. But you know that. And your dad’s a good guy. Can’t hold his alcohol, but he’s a good guy. I’m sure there’s some kind of explanation.”
It’s different talking to Marco. He doesn’t try to fix me.
He twists the lid again and I watch it spin, thinking about the barbecue, about Marco’s first impression of my dad—that he’s a good guy. How could he possibly have arrived at that conclusion after the drunkard Dad turned out to be?
“You and Olivia went to school together?”
“Yeah, Benson Elementary. I haven’t seen her in years. She had it rough back then. Rougher than I did, at least, and that’s saying something.”
Despite my dislike for the woman, I’m curious. “Her parents split up?”
“Her dad died. But that was before I knew her. She and her mom moved into the neighborhood—sheesh, when was that—well, it was the summer before fifth grade, so . . .”
“A century ago?”
He laughs. “Something like that. But then her mom died, and that was worse. A lot worse.”
“How so?”
“It was a fire. We were there when it happened. Burned hot, burned fast.”
“You were there?”
“Yeah, gah, it was awful. A fire at the school, her mom was inside, parent/teacher conference or something. Just, you know, one of those freak things, I guess.”
“Freak thing? How did the fire start?”
“I couldn’t say, really. I was a kid. Eleven maybe. Ten. There was an investigation, though, I remember that. I remember the police combing the neighborhood, so I bet we could find details online.” He pulls a smart phone from his pocket and opens the browser.
“But what were you doing there?”
“Flirting.”
“With Olivia?”
He sets the phone down. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s weird to see her all over your dad, but back then, she was this gorgeous young thing in a neighborhood that was a little desperate for beautiful things.”
It’s strangely therapeutic to know I wasn’t the only one with a fractured childhood. “I didn’t realize you grew up poor. I thought your dad had money.”
“Sometimes. He had these ideas. Always with the ideas. Half the time we were rolling in cash,