“Her name was Jessie, right?”
“It was,” Jake says. “I forgot people called her that.”
“You lived across the hall, I think, and in my dream she was banging on the door. Our door. It was early in the morning—like still-dark-outside early. She was panicked, half dressed. Said your father’d been arrested.” Marco stops. “Do you remember that? Your father being arrested?”
“I don’t remember it, no. But it happened. I know it did.”
Marco nods. “Your mom needed someone to watch you for a couple hours. Asked my mom if she could help.”
Jake remembers Marco’s mother, but just barely. He tries to picture her now, but the image is nothing but soft, round shadows.
“Mom babysat every kid in the neighborhood in those days. Told your mom to bring you right over, to take her time, do what she needed to do.” Marco’s words fall away, and they sit in silence for a moment. “And that . . . that’s what she did. She brought you over.”
He hasn’t said everything. Jake can tell. “What else, Marco?”
“It wasn’t a long dream.”
“But there’s more. What else?”
Marco’s hands are still on the gold letters. “Just you. She brought you over—your mom did—put you on the couch with an old blanket. You were all . . . you were messed up. Blood dried on your face, black eye.”
“My dad,” Jake says. “He drank. Had a temper. Bad combination.”
“I’m sorry, man. It made for a pretty awful dream. I can’t imagine living it. We were broke half the time, but no one ever hit me.”
“It’s okay,” Jake says.
“It’s not okay.”
“What I mean is, I don’t remember it. Not much, anyway.” But he remembers the fear. He rubs his damp hands against the rough wicker chair. “Go on. What else?”
“That was it. It was a short dream. Repeated itself a couple times before . . .”
“Before what?”
Marco drops his gaze to the floor. “I’ve been having this other dream. A good dream. Better than the one about you, anyway.” His fingers resume their circuit. H O L Y. “That dream cut in, pushed yours out. But you were with us most afternoons after that, weren’t you? For a couple years. Until my mom had to get a real job.”
“It sounds right, what you’re saying, but I don’t remember.” He stands and reaches a hand out for the Bible. Marco hands it over. Jake talks while he flips through the tissue-thin pages. “I do remember the day you gave me Professor X. You said he could find anybody, anywhere. Do you remember that? You said if I ever needed him to, he could find you.”
Marco laughs. “I’ve always been dramatic.”
There’s a ribbon sewn into the Bible. Jake slides it between two pages and continues flipping. “Do you remember why my dad was arrested?”
Marco exhales, leans back on his elbows. “I don’t. I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“He was arrested for arson,” Jake says, looking up.
“For arson?”
Jake weighs his next sentence. Tries to decide how best to deliver it. But there’s only the honest thing, the right thing. And there’s no use dragging it out any further.
“My dad burned down Benson Elementary.”
Marco shoots off the bed, his eyes on Jake. His hands hang out in front of him, awkward, curled like they’re grasping for something. “Your dad started the fire that killed Liv’s mom?”
“Yeah.” Jake clears his throat. “He did.”
Marco sits, the bed frame protesting. He twists his hands into the comforter. “Where is he now? Did he . . . Was he convicted?”
“He died in custody six weeks after he was arrested. Before the case went to trial.”
“Dead.” Slowly, Marco’s body starts to unclench. His shoulders drop, his hands relax. “I had no idea the arsonist died. It’s weird that I never knew, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Jake says. “We were kids.”
“But I was ten when that happened. And Liv was my friend.”
“All the more reason for your parents to keep the gory details from you. It’s easier to tell a kid it was all an accident. Easier for a kid to believe that.”
“But how do you . . . how did you . . .”
Jake pulls a gum wrapper from his pocket, flattens it.
“I’ve been looking for a tie between the two of us for months.”
That surprises Marco. “Between you and me? Why?”
“I recognized you. When you showed up last fall, I knew we’d met before, but I couldn’t figure it out. I hadn’t made any progress, not really, until the day you left Stratus with Liv. I went in the Prince’s halo2 for ato the city that day, talked to a guy. A tattoo artist. He knew my father.”
Jake’s eyes trail to the carpet. Brian Hughes was his father’s name. Before Professor X showed up in the chest that morning, Jake had been on the computer reading through every news article he could find on the fire at Benson Elementary.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I just . . . Anyway, this tattoo artist told me my father set the fire. Once I’d made the connection, it was easy. Terrible, but easy. Professor X brought back my memories of you, and the Internet gave me everything else.”
Jake slides the flattened gum wrapper into the Bible, marking a second passage.
“Have you told Liv?”
“I haven’t even told Brielle. There’s just . . . there’s so much more.”
Marco drags his hands through his hair. “Do I want to know?”
“Want has so little to do with any of this,” Jake says, closing the Bible. “It was Brielle’s mom you saw disappearing into the fire that day.”
“What?”
“The woman you saw through the window. The woman you thought was Brielle. It wasn’t. She was three years old at the time. It was her mom, Hannah. She dragged Liv out of the building that day. Saved her life.”
“Wha—I don’t . . .” Marco’s face freezes, a computer given too many commands. “There was only one body found in that building—I know that much—and it was Liv’s mom.”
Jake hands the Bible back to him. “What happened to Elle’s mom is a bit of a mystery after that.”
Marco’s eyes go wide. “An angel mystery?”
“Most likely. Brielle’s been trying to figure it out for a few weeks now.”
“How?”
“You’re not the only one having dreams, Marco.”
Jake leans against the door frame. He can hear Kaylee from here. She’s singing somewhere down the hall. It reminds him that he needs to see her one more time before he goes.
“What’s this?” Marco asks, his fingers falling on the first bookmark.
“It’s a story. Thought you’d like it. It’s about a guy named Jacob.”
“Jake, huh?” Marco says. “Cool name.”
“Yeah, well, this guy didn’t keep it long.”
“No? Why?”
“It’s all there.” Jake nods at the book. “The second story—yeah, the one with the gum wrapper—that’s an entire book dedicated to a man named Daniel.”
“Another story I’ll like? Why?”
“Because they were dreamers,” Jake says. “Like you.&r it took to g
22
Brielle
When I wake, the venetian blinds that cover my windows are yellow with afternoon light. Sand and salt scratch the soft skin between my toes and scrape at my back. I desperately need a shower, but I flip onto my side, facing the Les Misérables poster over my desk. I stare into the eyes of Cosette, trying to understand why I feel so awake, so light. My arms and legs are exhausted, but I feel rested.
And then I realize: no nightmare.
Neither my burning mother nor the child Olivia visited me while I slept. For the first time in forever, I’m more concerned about myself and my own choices than about others and theirs. I find a sense of freedom in that.
Sulfur clings to my clothes, and a ratted lock of hair is pasted t
o my face in some sort of crusty concoction. I lift a hand to free my cheek of it and then reach beneath my pillow. Both halos are there. One still warm. The other cool.
I pull them both out and sit up. They’ve reformed into cuffs, and I place one on each knee. Within seconds my right leg is warmed through. And my left? Well, it’s not cold. Not really. Not uncomfortable at least. And yet . . . images dance in the mirrored surface of the dark halo. My father’s truck slipping, sliding down the grassy incline, the Prince’s eyes sparkling as he offers help, my own hand trembling as I accept his crown.
No. Not accepted. I didn’t choose his crown. I ended up with it.
He disappeared, and I ended up with it.
I scratch the hair from my face and sit up. I’m rested and completely unprepared to confront the big questions Danakil left me with. So I won’t. Not yet. I grab both halos and set them side by side on top of Mom’s Bible on my bedside table. Briefly I envision Mom’s Bible singeing a hole through the dark halo, like the Ark of the Covenant burning through that Nazi crate in Raiders of the Lost Ark. But nothing so dramatic happens.
The gold halo winks at me, gathering the light from the room, shining like my favorite wishing star. I’m glad the Prince didn’t take it from me. Next to it, the dark halo reflects its surroundings: the golden halo, Mom’s Bible, the afternoon colors of my room. It’s absolutely ordinary next to Canaan’s.
Unable to stand the chafing a second longer, I kick out of my shorts and strip off my shirt. Sand and salt fall like rain, covering my sheets. I stand and ball all of it up—my sheets and blanket, my dirty clothes—before sliding into my zebra-print bathrobe and carrying my dirty things to the laundry room.
My bare feet are quiet on the carpet, the house silent. I stick my head into Dad’s room but it’s empty. I find a note from him on the kitchen counter.
Ran to the office. Dinner tonight. We need to talk.
He’s a man of many words, my dad. I lean into the island fingering the note. I’m glad he’s working. That’s a good thing, but I think again about the image in the desert. I try to conjure the picture in my mind, the way Dad’s truck was tangled in the foliage, the way his head gushed blood. Maybe the Prince did more than call for help. Maybe his minion sped Dad’s healing?
But that question opens the door to a million more equally uncomfortable questions, and I don’t want to feel any more indebted to the Prince than I already do. I shove away from both the counter and the questions, nearly sprinting to the bathroom across the hall. My little stereo is there on the counter and I crank it up, desperate to get lost in the noise, hoping it will drown the questions that feel like they weigh more than I do.
The water is hot, but not nearly hot enough to burn away the fear chewing at my stomach. With every drop of water I feel the questions I don’t want to answer. I see Jake’s face as he asks them, imagine Canaan’s brows drawn together in consternation as I struggle to explain just why I have the Prince’s halo.
And Dad obviously has his own questions. It’s not unexpected. I mean, I did leave town without letting him know. I did drive Slugger to the coast when my little Bug isn’t allowed out of Stratus.
But it’s more than that. Canaan told Dad stuff. I just hope he answered all the hard questions, because I’m still learning. And if I’m honest, today I have more questions than I’ve had in a long time.
I scrub ferociously at my head, clawing at the grit that refuses to release my hair. I shampoo three, four, five times, but it’s still not enough. I scrub my skin until it’s raw and the poor loofah is left in tatters, but I still smell of rotten eggs. When I climb from the shower I’ve decided one thing: it’s not possible to wash Danakil away.
And that’s unsettling.
I wrap a towel around my body, the ease I woke with gone. It washed away much more quickly than the grime, and I can’t help but wonder which halo would bring it back. The one that thaws me, eases my fear? Or the one that promises to hide it from my eyes?
And then I see my phone. It’s on the counter just inside the kitchen door. I thought I left it in the car at Bellwether.
Geeze, Bellwether!
Marco!
Kaylee!
I snatch up my phone and unlock it. There, waiting for me, are seventeen missed calls, one voice mail, and one text message. Fifteen of the missed calls are from my dad. Two are from Miss Macy, missed this morning. The text is from Kaylee.
SLUGGER’S OUT FRONT. MARCO’S WITH ME. YOUR DAD CALLED MY PHONE LAST NIGHT LOOKING FOR YOU. I TOLD HIM WE DROVE TO THE BEACH, WHICH IS ABSOLU&H
Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) Page 15
