Still lost in thought, I move over to the passenger-side door and open it. Lauren gets out. I dig through her bag and find her phone.
“I need your passcode.”
She just looks at me. My hand reaches behind my back. She flinches. The code, 1-1-0-5-7-1, spills out of her mouth. It sits in my head, each number like a blinding light. It is my brother’s birthday. I look at her and fight the urge to really see who Lauren is. For all her bravado. For all her intelligence and strength. She is no different from me. She is just another one of his victims.
In truth, it just doesn’t matter anymore. So I enter the code and the phone unlocks. Then I hand her the bag. She takes it, her eyes locked on the pavement. I go into her messages and the first thing I see is Drew’s name. Even now, I am tempted to open the thread, read their story. Maybe I could understand what she saw in him. What everyone does. For a second, I wonder if I could be wrong. If I’ve made all this up. If what I believe to be true is just more lies. How could I know if it was?
Taking a deep breath, I open a new message. I type in the number and, to my surprise, it shows up in Lauren’s contacts. Seeing the name appear on her screen turns my stomach, but my jaw tightens and I just send the text.
This is Liam. It’s time. Meet me at the emergency location. As soon as you can.
When I’m done, I look at Lauren. Her eyes avert, flipping back toward the ground. I slip her phone into my front pocket.
“Up there,” I say.
She looks up at the stone, then back at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and cloudy with tears. I nod, and she starts walking. I follow her close behind. A soft breeze picks up, running up the rise, blowing hair before my eyes. I brush it away and take a deep breath. It smells of pine and dried leaves. Like Halloween day, full of anticipation and a vague, unexplainable dread. I wonder, for just a second, if I would go back in time if I could. Return to my childhood, to the memories that ride that wind. Regardless of everything, how bad things were, where the years led, I think I would. Maybe just for a day. Just to feel that potential again. The chance that things could be good. Maybe.
Before I realize it, I am already standing beside her stone. I kneel, my hand running along the smooth, cold edge. I had intended to take a picture of Lauren in front of the grave. Then send it to my brother from her phone. Just another jab at him. But it suddenly feels wrong to me.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
The breeze answers me, slipping under my jacket and running up my spine. I feel at peace, in a way. But sad as well. I dig through the past, pulling at my oldest memories. It is there that I find her at her best, tall and straight, jet hair tied back in blue-and-white silk. I see her deep, big eyes, clear and bright. I see her smiling mouth, painted a shocking red. I hear my name on her lips, loving and so real that it hurts beyond belief.
A tear fills one eye. It is pain. And sadness. But also frustration, anger. I let it sit there, clouding my vision so that I don’t forget. I look at the face of her stone.
VIRGINIA EVANS BRENNAN
1948–1986
Nothing else is etched on the marker. No mention of being a loving mother. A wife. A daughter or sister. My eyes lock on to that one word, EVANS, and I remember her rare but beautiful stories about a family I never knew. I should have looked for them. Maybe they would have welcomed me, taken me in as their own. I could have joined that family. Why hadn’t I thought to try?
Because that’s a dream. This is real. As I remind myself of that simple truth, I feel a pressure against my lower back. Something slides up against my skin, catching on the waistband of my pants.
Reality slams into me. I jerk up, spinning, and look down the barrel of my own gun.