No beat.
The doctor does it again. And again. Time loses all shape. Minutes? Hours? I’m not sure I’ve taken a single breath.
And then the room goes quiet.
“Time of death 12:25 p.m.,” the doctor says in a calm, even tone. Like my entire world hasn’t just crumbled to dust. Like I haven’t lost the one person who has loved and nurtured me and tried her best to keep me safe since birth.
The doctor turns to leave, her face totally blank, and as she walks away, her foot catches on a pillow—the one that was justcradling Nonna’s head minutes ago. I grab it, and a sob rips out of my throat, a sound I didn’t even know I could make. The doctor barely even pauses, barely looks back, just slips out the door.
“Nonna?” I whisper, my voice trembling as I finally manage to edge around the machines and reach my grandmother. But when I see her, still and lifeless, the floor beneath me gives way. A tightness wraps around my chest and squeezes until I can’t let in the air. The room spins. I grip the bed frame, gasping, but it’s no use. Nonna’s gone. Her face—not peaceful. She is not peaceful; in death, her mouth is twisted in rage.
She looks so different than even how she looked just before I left the room to get Mom her fucking snack. Then, at least, Nonna seemed calm and purposeful.
But this—this is the image that will stay with me, the last one I’ll ever have of my nonna, my favorite person in the world. Her tired, gentle face burns itself into my memory as my breath catches. Everything’s shrinking, like the whole world’s collapsing in on itself and all I can do is cling to scraps of her: the smell of Sunday dinners she’d make from scratch, her laugh when she’d catch me sneaking hard candies from her bag, the way we’d lie on our backs at night, side by side, whispering wishes to the stars through my bedroom window.
Now, though, it’s all slipping through my fingers, leaving only the silence where she used to be.
Forty-Five
Axe
When Josie messages me saying she won’t be able to come in to work on some She’s the One edits because her grandmother has passed, I put SynthoTech on full alert. I send massive bouquets, flowers upon flowers, trying to dosomething—anything, really—but it feels like grasping at air.
There’s no funeral to go to, no gathering for closure. Her nonna didn’t want any of it, made sure there’d be no fuss. Josie’s brief texts are sweet, but there’s a lost, numb sadness to them that breaks my heart.
As much as I’ve wanted to be right there beside her—to take her hand, to hold her close through this—she makes it clear she needs her space.
Josie wants to grieve alone.
In Scotland, with the exception of Skara Brae, when someone has passed, grief is our national sport. Wakes go on for days. Mourners take turns keeping vigil, not leaving the body, not for a moment. The family steps in, helping the caretaker with the burial, all before gathering together for the repast, sharing stories and memories. Grief’s not meant to be suffered in silence. It’s messy, loud, human, shared, and held up by your kin.
The next time I get to see Josie will be at Saturday’s Turning Point Gala—a benefit for the shelter Strike and Honor support, which serves women and children rebuilding after domestic abuse—and anticipation jolts me awake before the sun’s even up. I head to the gym for a punishing round of dead lifts, with the reward of a Green God smoothie from the juice bar: spinach, kale, banana, and some shit that tastes like powdered Band-Aids.
Then I sit down, my thumbs hovering over my phone. Josie would be the first to tell me she doesn’t need me to coddle her. But…I can’t help but check in.
Oi, Miss Greene. Still stepping out tonight for Turning Point?
A few seconds pass before her reply:Of course! I wouldn’t miss it
Looking forward to seeing you outshine all that fancy art
Ha, flattery will get you everywhere. Looking forward to seeing you, too
My heart expands like a bellows. I’m trying to cook up something just right to send back when my encrypted email sounds off.
To: A. MacKenzie
From: Niles von Grafenhagen
Subject: Final Review NVG Inc. Contribution.
I’d like to schedule a meeting tonight, 7 pm sharp, to finalize the remaining details of NVG, Inc.’s commitment to the She’s the One initiative, specifically regarding the blockchain-secured investments and the cloud-based infrastructure we’ve allocated for long-term scalability. For convenience, let’s meet at the Quarry Lounge, just next door to the Gala. I also intend to make a significant additional contribution to Turning Point this evening.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Strike, who has been monitoring all of Niles’s communications. “You get the message?”
“Just came through. He’s got shit timing. We’ll have to step out of the gala.”
“It looks like he’s planning more than just a casual business meeting tonight,” says Strike. “He sent out a coded message earlier today—something aboutpressure pointsandtiming around the gala. It’s vague, but it doesn’t sit right with me. Especially because it pinged near a tower not far from Veronica Petrov’s estate. He’s got something else going down tonight. Something that involves more than just his contribution.”
