Officer Canto clears his throat, eyes darting around the room as if looking for the nearest escape route. He drops his hand from my shoulder, and I scowl. Though kicking him in the balls would probably only get me in more trouble and prevent me from leaving.
“She must appear in court next week. Officers will check in daily to make sure she hasn’t fled. Isshe…staying with you?” The last question is laced with disdain and perhaps fear?
Good. It’s not enough.
The Guardian reaches out. At first, I think he wants to shake hands, but then he gestures to my backpack. “Allow me to carry it, Miss Sinclair.”
I’m not sure I trust The Guardian, but I also don’t want to fuck up my one chance at escape. I’m hesitant to hand it over, seeing as it’s the last of my possessions after going through my house one last time. I couldn’t take everything, but I found the most important things I couldn’t part with. To outsiders, it looks like an old, dingy backpack that has seen better days. But to me, it’s priceless because it was Anna’s.
Reluctantly, I hand it over. The Guardian takes the backpack, and in his hands, it looks like it was made for a toddler. He flings it over one arm, muscles bulging as he secures it around one shoulder, and nods. “We must be off.”
“Wait, you didn’t answer me. Is she staying at your house or not?” Officer Canto’s face flushes red, barely concealing his annoyance.
“Or not,” The Guardian dismisses him, and before the officer can demand any more, I’m being escorted out of the building with a hand on my shoulder by the scary horned man. I doubt anyone will be knocking down The Guardian’s door to try and find me. And if they do? I suspect they won’t be breathing for much longer after that.
We don’t stop walking until we are out the door, down the steps, and halfway down the street. TheGuardian’s long strides force me to jog to keep up with him. “Can you slow down, please? Some of us have normal-sized legs.”
The Guardian slows but doesn’t stop. He, thankfully, drops his hand from my shoulder. I’m not big on being touched, and I’ve been touched and patted down enough to last me a lifetime over the past few days.
“My apologies, Miss Sinclair.”
“It’s Isabelle.” He ignores me.
“We must get you to Oziel,” The Guardian says. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I’m guessing he has something to do with the contract I signed.
I'm in no position to make any more demands, but I do anyway. “Wait, we can’t leave yet.”
The scary non-man stops and slowly turns around. I think he’s glaring at me, or maybe that’s just how he always looks. If so, The Guardian has locked down resting bitch face better than any teenage girl I’ve met.
“And why can we not leave yet? Are you going back on the contract?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. I just need…” I take a deep breath, awkwardly shifting my weight from foot to foot. I don’t know why asking The Guardian to go see my dead sister one last time is harder than killing James, yet here we are.
“I need to go to the Grym Hollow cemetery.” My words are faster than they should be. “I need to say goodbye to someone.”
The Guardian doesn’t speak for a long time. If he refuses me, then…there’s nothing I can do. But I have to see her. Just one last time. If I don’t?—
“Very well,” The Guardian says at last, cutting off my wayward thoughts. “But make it quick.”
We reachthe wrought iron fence that surrounds the perimeter of the cemetery. Two large weeping willows decorate the entrance, their branches cascading down in an array of greens and browns. They appear to be crying, as if the trees themselves are in mourning. The scent of fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers fill the air. The only sound comes from the birds flying overhead and the occasional car passing by.
Aside from a family of three hunched over a grave on the opposite side of where I’ll be, The Guardian and I are the only ones here. My horned companion stares upon the graves with melancholy. He makes no attempt to walk inside, instead taking up residence outside the gate.
“I will give you privacy. Ten minutes, and we must go,” he warns.
“I only need five.” I reach my hand out. “Can I have my backpack?”
With a nod, he slides the backpack off his shoulder and hands it to me. “Thanks,” I say before walking in, my body on autopilot. I have walked through those very gates hundreds, if not thousands, of times. The gravel crunches beneath my feet until I veer off toward a grassy area. I pass old and new tombstones. The saddest ones are the ones with birth and death dates close together.
Five. Seven. Three.
I make my way toward the end, near the wrought iron fence directly opposite the entrance. Nestled under an oak tree is a marble tombstone with the nameAnna Sinclairforever etched into the surface. She sleeps peacefully between our mother, who died of breast cancer when we were teenagers, and our father, who died a year before Anna from a heart attack.
My family together for eternity.
I allow my backpack to fall to the ground next to the tombstones as I sink to my knees. The red roses I brought before finding myself in jail have wilted some but still look beautiful decorating their graves. I think Anna would like them. She always had a thing for roses. Personally, I hated them because of the thorns, and always ended up stabbing my fingers, but when she died, they became my favorite flower.
“Sometimes the most beautiful things in life can hurt you. Unless you know how to tend them,” Anna would say each time she brought home a fresh bouquet.
