“Ms. Halston—” a middle-aged woman approaches me, tears already sliding down her cheeks. “Thank you so much for doing this—such a tragedy—I was Declan’s babysitter when he was just a little boy. His parent’s passed in a car accident when he was in high school, poor boy had no family left, I just wanted to be here to honor him. Thank you for allowing us to mourn in this sacred space, it means so much.” She’s sobbing now. I know I should feel the urge to reach out to her, comfort her in her loss, but I don’t have it in me to do it.
“Of course,” I smile tightly.
I realize then that these people aren’t listening to what I say anymore. They’re listening to what they need.
The old woman continues to talk about Declan when he was young—when she last saw him—but I tune her out. My eyes are focused over her shoulder. A man dipped in shadow stands under the Joan of Arc statue, his eyes trained on me.
My heart hammers as our gazes connect.
He wants me to know he’s watching.
He wants me to fear him.
But fear fuels me. I alchemize fear into action. He thinks he knows me more than the rest of these people and maybe he does, but just let him try to do something about it.
I’ll be ready.
I’m always ready.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shae
Aweek after Declan’s death, I glide into Hearth & Hands like some holy emissary. The wooden floors echo with generosity and guilt; I’ve always preferred the sound of broken souls over laughter anyway.
Blake is here too, camera on his shoulder like a predator’s eye. He leans close and murmurs, “Go for emotional depth. Isabelle cracks easiest.”
Emotional depth. What a quaint term for exploitation.
I crouch beside Isabelle at the craft table while she tries to paint, hands trembling. “Need help mixing colors?”
She nods, barely. Her voice is a breath. “They say blue makes people calm.”
“True colors—calming or not—tell stories,” I murmur. “What’s yours, Isabelle?”
Her brush pauses. “I… like stories.”
I smile. “We should write one together.”
We work in silence for a few long moments. Her colors bleed together; mine stay precise. I press, gentle as a thumb on a bruise. “Tell me about home.”
Her walls crumble. “Mom leaves. Takes pills. Dad… he’s always angry. This place—here—it’s the only time I feel seen.”
Ah. A crack.
“Seen is rare,” I say softly. “But deserved.” I brush a stray lock behind her ear—maternal, almost. She melts. I file it away.
At the end of the hall, I catch a man half-hidden in the doorway, voice breaking on the phone. He’s asking his son’s school secretary for science-fair photos to use at Gram’s funeral.
I step in like I belong there. “I lost someone too,” I say, voice soft enough to caress. “I know how it hollows you out.”
He looks up, jagged hope flickering behind his eyes.
“I’m going out for coffee in a bit,” I offer. “I can bring you back some. Then we can look at photos together.”
He nods. I give him my glossyI understandsmile. Another partnership, neatly sealed.
One of the other volunteers flits around me like a moth—ever-present. Useful. Annoying.
