That can’t be how it ends.
“I need to go to his funeral.”
Yasmin’s hand tightens on mine. “El?—”
“I know it’s stupid. And probably dangerous. But I can’t—” I hiccup. “I can’t let that alley be the last time. I need to say goodbye properly. Even if he can’t hear it.”
“Elly, baby, sweetheart, light of my life… you’re wanted for questioning. The police have been looking for us for weeks. And if Bastian was mixed up in organized crime like they’re saying?—”
“I know.”
“—then his funeral is going to be crawling with people who might recognize you. Cops, reporters, maybe even whoever killed him?—”
“I know that, too.”
“—and you’re blind, and pregnant, and we don’t even know where it’ll be held, and?—”
“Yasmin.” I make her stop with a finger on her lips. “I know. But I have to.”
She exhales slowly, and I can hear the exact moment she stops fighting me. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. But we do this smart. Disguises, back entrance, we stay for ten minutes max. Andthe second—themillisecond—anything feels wrong, we leave. No arguments. ‘Kay?”
“No arguments,” I agree. “In and out. No one will ever know we’re there.”
That night, I stand in front of the small closet in our bedroom, running my hands over the meager collection of clothes we’ve accumulated since fleeing Chicago. Everything feels wrong, though. Cheap or gaudy or just plain stupid.
“What about the black sweater?” Yasmin suggests from her perch on the bed. “The one with the crew neck.”
I pull it out, feeling the soft knit between my fingers. “Too casual, I think.”
“The navy dress?”
“Too fitted.” Too obvious that I’m pregnant, also, even if it’s just a tiny little bump.
We go through the entire closet this way—Yasmin describing, me rejecting. Too short. Too wrinkled. Too memorable. Too plain. Finally, she says, “What about the charcoal button-down? With the black pants?”
I find both items and hold them against my body as I picture how it’ll look to the rest of the work. Simple. Dark. Not memorable in the least. Exactly what you’d wear if you wanted to blend into a sea of mourners.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “That works.”
Yasmin comes to stand beside me. “You sure about this?”
I fold the clothes carefully and set them on the dresser for tomorrow. “No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
I smooth the charcoal button-down one more time. My fingers flutter over the collar, the placket, the cuffs. There are no wrinkles, I know there aren’t, but I can’t seem to stop touching it anyway.
What would Bastian think if he knew I was coming? Would he want me there? Would he be angry that I ran? Would he understand why I had to?
I don’t know and I never will. Bastian is past wanting anything now. His thoughts, his anger, his understanding—all of it died with him in that warehouse. Whatever questions I have will go unanswered. Whatever apologies I owe or am owed will go unheard.
And in any case, this isn’t about him anymore. It’s about me. I need to prove that I’m not the coward I felt like in that alley. More importantly, I have to give this baby—ourbaby—a story that doesn’t end with their mother running away from the killer who loved her.
I press my hand to my stomach. “Your father deserves a proper goodbye,” I whisper. “So do you. And so do I.”
10
ELIANA
comp /kämp/: noun
