Broken Wings (An Angel Eyes Novel)(27)

"Marco?" I ask again.

He shakes his head and turns away, toward the door. Toward Jake.

"Sit down, Marco. We'll explain."

His head turns left and right, and his hands continue to shake. I remember a time, in this very room, when mine did the same. I realize only half a breath before it happens that Marco is going to run, just like I did.

And then he does.

His shoulder connects with Jake's as he pushes past him and down the hall. I stand and lurch toward the door, Jake already pursuing him. Before I make it halfway down the hall, I hear the front door open and close.

Marco's gone.

As I round the corner into the kitchen, Jake flings open the door, his momentum propelling him onto the porch. I'm right behind, but when I fall into step next to him, his arm wraps my waist and I stop.

"Let him go," Jake says.

"What if he saw the Celestial, Jake? He won't understand that without help."

"Not now. If I know Marco, he needs to try to figure this out on his own. When he reaches the end of his understanding, he'll be back."

"Jake . . ."

"Waiting is a part of the process, Elle. His mind can't be forced."

Canaan's said those very words to me. On that same night. The night of the warehouse. The night Marco touched my hands and realized something was different. What did he tell himself about that? Did he reason it away?

What will he tell himself about the halo?

And how long will it take him to realize he needs help understanding?

I lean into Jake and watch as Marco disappears. He's headed toward town. Toward Main Street.

There's not much there, but I hope he finds what he's looking for.                       
       
           



       24



Brielle





You have time for a drive?" Jake asks.

He's released my waist and stepped away. It's weird to have distance between us. I try to shake off the look on Marco's face and focus on Jake. On this moment. But he's walking away from me, down the stairs.

"I have something to show you. It's not far." He opens the passenger door to his car and holds it for me. I turn toward my house, toward the conversation waiting there for me. The sheriff's cruiser is still in the drive. Dad will be fine. He has company and I'm still not ready to see him, so I drop down the stairs and slide into the Karmann Ghia.

Jake wasn't kidding when he said we weren't going far. He pulls off the highway and parks as near to the Stratus Cemetery gate as he can. Yellow caution tape marks off several areas where dirt and rocks seem to have been displaced.

"Is this all from my mother's grave?"

"Yeah," Jake says. "Crazy, huh?"

Being back here is strange. It feels very disconnected to me, and yet if I'm to believe Virtue, all this turmoil was caused because the grave was empty. Because my dad hid emptiness below the ground.

All this because I wanted truth.

I expect to be sad or angry being here again, but I'm just numb. We duck under the caution tape, and I let Jake lead me through the gate and along the path. It's quiet. Birds zipping through the summer sky, chattering. Dragonflies escort us, unaware that this place has been violated. And still Jake says nothing until we're standing beneath the mangled branches of the willow tree.

"I found something," he says.

"Here? When?"

"Last night. This morning, actually. I came back," he says. "Waited till the police cleared the area, and then I searched."

"What were you looking for?"

"Anything," he says. "Just something to point us in the right direction."

Us.

"I really am sorry about that night. About sending you away like that."

"Stop," he says. "I'm not mad."

His face is tighter than I'm used to, but I'm not about to call him a liar.

"Okay." I squeeze his hand. "So you found something?"

"Look up," he says.

The leaves of the willow are singed in places, branches bent and broken. Amongst the wreckage, it takes my eyes a second to find it. But there, hanging from a splintered branch, is a necklace.

It hangs about twelve feet up, a circlet of beads with a single wooden ornament decorating it.

A flower.

I refuse to sink to the mud here again, so I grab Jake's arms. "I know that necklace. I've seen it."

"Where?"

"I had another . . . it was . . . in a nightmare."

"You had another nightmare? A different nightmare?"

"It started Saturday night, before the cemetery. You think that was buried with my mom?"

"Elle, we need to talk about the nightmare."

"I know, and we will, but-"

He growls, frustrated.

"Jake! Do you . . . do you think it was in her casket?"

He releases my hand with a little more gusto than absolutely necessary and moves to the tree. "The thought crossed my mind," he says. "I don't know any other way it could have gotten up there."

Jake grabs hold of a low-hanging limb. Hand over hand, he works his way up to the necklace and with deft fingers works it free.

"Catch."

The necklace falls straight down, the wooden ornament tugging it toward me. I catch it easily and set to examining it. The beads are multicolored and strung in no particular order. There's no clasp, just a knot holding it all together. The wooden ornament is circular and smooth, a white plumeria painted on it. Its yellow center is faded, the white petals scratched, but there's no mistaking it. This is the necklace from my nightmare.

Jake drops from the tree.

"This is it," I say. "The girl was wearing it in my dream."

"The girl in the hallway?"

"Yes and no. It was the same girl, but she was younger, happier. Until . . ."

I have a terrifying thought. "Jake, I think the nightmares are coming from the Throne Room. I think they're telling me something."

"Why do you think I'm freaking out?" A cold wind blows through the cemetery, too cold for July. The willow shivers and my hair whips about. I tie it back in a knot, my mind trying to place the puzzle pieces. And now there are just so many.

"Marco found a picture in Ali's journal. It's of a woman with three scars marking her arm."

"Like the girl?" Jake asks, his face distractingly close to mine. Still, I soldier on.

"Exactly like the girl. And Marco was telling me this story that seems-"

"We need to talk to Canaan," Jake says. "He's the best at reading the Throne Room's intentions. I just . . . why weren't these things delivered as clues? If we're supposed to do something with what we know, why isn't the Throne Room using the chest?"

It's a good question. Why isn't Canaan the one putting these pieces together?

"Maybe because we won't always have the chest," I tell him, the idea strange but sensible. "If Canaan's reassigned and you stay with me . . ." But there's the other possibility. That I'm the one having nightmares because they could both choose to leave and I'm supposed to piece this together myself. "You are staying with me?"

"I'm not leaving, Elle," he says, tipping my chin to his and speaking soft words into my mouth. "I've told you that. I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay."

There's something in his eyes that makes my stomach clench, makes it crave. It's longing, I realize, and that scares me a little. There are things we can't share just yet. Things we shouldn't share. Until Jake, I never realized how easy it'd be to give up something that isn't mine to part with.

I step back, Jake's eyes falling to the necklace in my hand.

"What do you think about the necklace?" he asks, his voice thick.

I breathe away some of the tension and turn the wood flower in my hands.

"It's beautiful, but there's nothing to indicate it came from Mom's grave."

"Except the debris, of course," Jake says, looking around.

"Yeah, there is that."

"You could ask your dad," he says.

"As if." I blow a strand of hair from my face. "Although . . ."

"Although?"

"Dad's not the only one who might able to tell me if this belonged to Mom."

"Who then?"

"Miss Macy," I say.

"Grandmother Tutu?"

I slide the necklace over my head. "She hates that nickname, by the way, but yeah. She's the one who introduced Mom and Dad. She and Mom were BFFs back in the day."

"Then let's ask her," Jake says.

"Don't you have to work?"

"Took the day off," he says, pulling a leaf from my hair. "My girlfriend needs me."



But Miss Macy's not home. We check the studio too, but it's dark inside. A sign on the door says she's sorry for the last-minute closure.

"That's weird," I say. "She never cancels class. Can I borrow your phone?"

But she's not answering her cell either.

Jake calls Canaan, but the call rolls to voice mail.

"Okay, let's just figure this out ourselves," I say. "We can do that, right? We're smart."

Jake pulls the car into the drive-thru at Burgerville. "I'm much smarter after I've eaten."

We pick up shakes and onion rings and drive out to Crooked Leg Bridge. The sky is clear and blue, Mount Bachelor rising in the distance, crowning a horizon of evergreens with a tipsy white dunce hat. We sit side by side on the bridge, our feet dangling, and I tell him about my nightmares. All of them. And because I can't shake the thought that it's related, I tell him about Olivia's mom dying in that fire.