the other half we were scrounging the couch cushions for change to pay rent.” He slides his finger over his phone again. “Internet’s slow here.”
“It’s Stratus.”
“Right. Hey, can I ask you something?” he says. “I just . . . Hang on a sec.”
“Sure,” I say to his back. He’s already halfway down the hall. I think of Olivia, of a story that feels familiar, like a book I’ve read in the distant past. I can’t place the title and I can’t remember the players, but the plot rings true. I take another sip and Marco’s back in his chair, flipping through a leather journal.
Ali’s journal.
I can’t help but notice it’s taken quite a beating since he was here last, creased down the middle like it spends a lot of time in his back pocket.
“I’m glad you keep it with you.”
He keeps flipping. “I like to read it. It’s her, you know? I mean, I know it’s not, but she’s in here somewhere, in these pages. It’s stupid, because I always thought I knew her so well, but she was brilliant, you know? Like, really brilliant. Her words make me think.”
Memories tackle me, tickle me, summon a smile. “I always loved that about her.”
“Here,” he says, turning the journal toward me. “This quote, it’s not Shakespeare like everything else in here. Do you know it?”
A single sentence lines the top of the page: Men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.
I know it. This quote. I know where it’s from. But it’s the drawing below it that splits my world in half. It’s a pencil sketch of a woman’s hand.
Rings adorn her index and middle fingers, manicured nails gently curving toward her palm. Her forearm is exposed, three jagged lines marking the skin.
“Elle?” Marco asks, his hand suddenly on my wrist. “You okay?”
I search the page for something, anything to put this in perspective. But all I see is the girl in the marble hallway, Javan digging invisible claws into her arm. Somehow this girl made it to adulthood, otherwise how could Ali have seen her arm? How could she have drawn it? And now the child in the hospital makes sense—Ali’s journal putting it in perspective.
I haven’t been dreaming recent events. I’ve been dreaming about things in days gone by.
But why?
“Are you all right?” Marco asks, his hand on mine.
“I’m sorry. The apostle John wrote those words,” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper. “They’re from the Bible.”
At the word Bible, the halo thrums against my arm. It’s not a soft, subtle thrumming. The thing is shifting. I let my arm fall to my lap, but the halo’s unraveling, moving slowly, reforming into the crown. It rubs against the underside of the table, the gold rim sliding against my arm.
This is a different kind of terror. Different from a sketch that mirrors my nightmares, different from my mom’s empty grave. What do I tell Marco if he sees the halo move? I’m neither qualified nor prepared for that conversation.
My brow breaks out in a sweat, and I swallow. I have nowhere to hide this thing. I’m wearing a sundress, for crying out loud.
“Brielle? Are you all right?” Marco leans forward, looking into my eyes. “You’re pale.”
I want to reassure him, but mostly I want him to back away. Far away from the halo warming my arm. I lean against the table and press it against my stomach, wrapping it in the material at my waist. Standing, I turn away from him.
“Brielle?”
My sandals sound like army boots banging away at the floor as I run down the hall and into Jake’s room. I try to slam the door behind me, but it bounces off of something with a dull thud.
I hear it vibrate open and turn back to close it.
But Marco’s there. Followed me down the hall, his face concerned.
Stupid chivalry.
“What’s wrong?” he says, grabbing my shoulder.
That’s all it takes. My dress shifts, and the halo slides down my arm, tumbling into the air. It’s about halfway between the cuff and the crown when Marco catches it. But even his grip can’t stop it from reforming, and he jerks his hand away. I’m not sure if it’s the heat or the foreign feeling of metal moving under his touch, but the halo falls, landing on a pile of neatly mated socks.
Marco crouches, peering at the halo like a boy staring at a wriggling earthworm.