there is gone, and it’s those green and brown eyes that stare back at me. Flesh. Not spirit.
But they still give me butterflies.
“Jessica Rose was my mother.”
My stomach clenches. It’s like a miniature hunter just fired buckshot at the butterflies flitting about inside.
“I thought you didn’t know your last name.”
“I don’t. I mean, if Rose was her last name, she listed something else on my birth certificate. There’s no record of a Jessica Rose giving birth in Oregon the year I was born.”
“Then how do you know she’s your mother?”
“It’s one of the few things I remember. My dad slamming doors, screaming “Jessica Rose” whenever he was angry. Maybe it was her middle name or a nickname. I don’t know.”
Of all the things the Throne Room could have sent, of all the ways He could have answered our prayers for Marco, this is what we’re given: a picture of a man’s neck with Jake’s mother’s name tattooed on it.
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the thought growing there. Of the certainty that this is our way forward. They’re ridiculous, the words I’m about to say—because I need him here. I’m on unsteady ground as it is. With my dad and these nightmares. With the halo gone and Marco gallivanting about with Olivia. With the Celestial sliding in and out of view.
But I say them anyway.
“You have to go.” I flip the photo again and read. “Evil Deeds Tattoo Parlor, NW 23rd. We prayed, and God gave us this.”
“I don’t want to leave you here without Canaan or the halo. Not with the nightmares, Elle.”
“I adore the halo and Canaan’s a rock star, but neither of them can stop the dreams. You need to go. And Helene’s here.”
“Are you sure? You’ll be okay if I leave?”
I want to tell him, “No, stupid. Of course I won’t be okay if you leave.” But I don’t. I remind him about the sketch in Ali’s journal and the scripture written on the page.
“You have to go,” I say again.
Jake leans in and presses his face to mine, the contours of our cheekbones curving perfectly together. “I’ll go because it’s the answer we’ve been praying for. But so you know, I’d rather stay.”
I can’t go with him. We both know that. Not with my dad so unstable and the possibility that Marco could return.
“I’d rather you stay too.”
My heart bangs in my chest at his closeness, at the heat between us, at the promise of a future together. I think it’s trying to break through—my heart—trying to be closer to the man in front of me.
I know just how it feels.
Close just doesn’t seem close enough anymore.
It’s another few minutes before he moves, but it’s still far too soon.
He grazes my bottom lip with his thumb. “I’m going to go throw a few things in my bag.”
“Marco’s bag, you mean?”
“Yeah, Marco’s bag.”
He kisses me lightly and leaves me leaning against the kitchen counter. I’m still standing there holding the photo when he crosses the hall with Marco’s bag and heads to his room.
I follow him down the hall, wanting to savor the last few minutes before he leaves. I’d help him pack, but I can’t ever find a thing in his room. Still, I can sit in the mess and watch.
I pass Canaan’s room, and that woodsy, outdoor smell tickles my nose. I stop and take two steps backward. It’s coming from the chest. Jake must’ve left the lid ajar. I step into the room and take the five and a half steps necessary to reach the end of the bed.
I look down, but the chest’s not open.
Huh.
Still, the fragrance is stronger than ever before, and an overwhelming need to see inside the thing pulls me to my knees. My hands are slick with sweat, so I rub them on my shorts before I shove the lid to the ground.
The first time I had the lead in a ballet was when I was eight years old. I was confident, bordering on cocky, really, and I had zero fear. But when that spotlight hit me and the world faded to black, when I could see nothing beyond that small circle, the terror crept in.
Just as it’s doing now.
There is nothing beyond this circle of fear. Nothing in the world but me and Damien’s dagger—Damien’s bloody dagger—and the unmistakable absence of a sterling silver jewelry box.