I tap the screen on my phone, click on the Google browser, and typeEmerson Vale.Different articles pop up. I read each one saying the same thing—his execution, my face when I wore my natural sandy-brown hair, my parents’ faces.
My head starts to hurt. I get this image of him standing by a tree on campus, staring at me.
Maybe he got out somehow.
I slap my palm on my forehead and yank my hair until my scalp stings.
No. That’s crazy. I saw the bastard die.
I cut the TV off and sit in complete silence.
And I hear it:
My little sapphire. My little sapphire. My little sapphire.
I sit up and look around, and no one is here.
Emerson used to call me that when we were teenagers.
I toss the necklace into the garbage disposal, crushing it.Grrnnk. Grrnnk. Grrnnk.The sound vibrates under my fingertips on the counter. It burns my ears. That isn’t enough. I cut the machine off, remove the bent locket, and run to the fireplace. I light the electric fireplace, then toss it into the deep crimson flames. The locket warps at the edges of the fire. The metal heats unevenly. A faint metallic scent lingers in the air. Smoke hisses and pops.
I check the doors and windows again to make sure they’re locked.
I fumble with my phone and debate whether to call my old friend, Ambrose. He’s the only one who knows I faked my death. I dial his number, and it rings three times before he answers.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.” My tone is shaking.
“Pai—”
My heart bangs against my rib cage. “Please don’t call me that, Ambrose.”
I hear him fumbling, then he tells whoever he’s in bed with that he has to step outside. A door shuts.
“What do you need, babe? Is everything okay?”
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, and I shake my head as if he can see me. “No.” I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. “Is there a way someone could track my old identity?”
“No, my father destroyed everything.”
I burst into tears. “The locket I gave Emerson magically popped up on my pillow.”
He’s quiet for several seconds.
“Are you sure you di—”
“I’m sure I didn’t take it with me. Everything he owned, I got rid of. Even the gifts I gave him.”
He invites me to a video call, and I answer. He looks the same but older, with copper hair in a bun and a full beard. His golden chest is smooth.
“That is strange,” he says, “but we watched him die, Pa—Lilac. He’s not alive.”
“But what if he is?”
He loosens his man bun, and his hair falls over his shoulders.
“He’s not. I was there when he was executed and when he was buried.”
