“I know you, Mara. I know everything. And I don’t care.”

I wanted to cry when he said it out loud. I wished that I could. But there were no tears. My voice was unexpectedly hard when I spoke.

“Maybe not today. But you will.”

Noah held my hand. The simplicity of the gesture moved me so much that I started to doubt.

“No,” Noah said. “You made me real, and I will hurt for you and because of you and be grateful for the pain. But this? This is forever. Don’t do this.”

I sat down on the steps, my legs too shaky to keep me upright. “If he’s found guilty, I won’t.”

“But if he’s acquitted—”

“I have to,” I said, my voice breaking. If he went free, he might go after my brother again. And I was the agent. I could stop it. I was the only one who could.

“I don’t have a choice.”

Noah sat down next to me, his expression grim. “You always have a choice.”

We said nothing for what seemed like hours. I sat on the unforgiving stone and the unnatural coolness of it penetrated my jeans. I turned the night of the collapse over and over again in my mind, until the thoughts and images whirled like a cyclone.

Like a cyclone. Rachel and Claire were caught up in my fury, which was too explosive, too wild to have any focus.

But that was not the case today.

When the doors clicked open behind us, we were up in an instant as a throng of people flooded the courthouse steps. Reporters with microphones, cameras, flashbulbs, and cameramen shining their painful lights in my father’s direction. He was in front.

Lassiter was behind him, beaming. Triumphant. Cool anger coursed through my veins as I watched him approach, followed by police. With guns in their holsters. And in an instant, I knew. I knew how to keep everyone else here safe while I punished Lassiter for what he tried to do. Before he could hurt anyone else.

My father made his way to a podium so close to where we stood, but I shifted out of his way, out of his field of vision. Noah held my hand, squeezed it, and I didn’t pull away. It didn’t matter.

Microphones jabbed at my father’s face, vying for dominance, but he took it all in stride. “I have a lot to say today, as I’m sure you can all guess,” my father said, and there was a murmur of laughter. “But the real winners here are my client, Leon Lassiter, and the people of Florida. Since I can’t hand over a microphone to the people of Florida, I’m going to let Leon say a few words.”

I saw the gun. The matte black metal was so plain and unremarkable. The metal was dull on my fingertips. The grooves on the grip dimpled my palm. It almost looked like a toy.

My father stepped out of the way, moving his head to the right, and Leon Lassiter’s took its place. I was right behind him.

It was strange the way it felt; the weight unfamiliar and somehow dangerous. I looked down the muzzle. Just a hole.

“Thank you, Marcus.” Lassiter smiled and clapped my father on the shoulder. “I am a man of few words, but I wanted to say two things. First, that I am grateful, so grateful, for my lawyer Marcus Dyer.”

I pointed the gun.

“He took time away from his life, his wife, his children to get justice for me, and I am not sure I’d be standing here right now if it wasn’t for him.”

Blackness seeped into my field of vision. I felt arms holding me, felt the brush of lips by my earlobe, but I heard nothing.

“Second, I want to tell the parents of Jordana—”

And then the oddest thing; before another thought appeared against the backdrop of my mind, someone began popping popcorn right there at the courthouse. Pop pop pop pop. The sound was so loud that my eardrums tickled. Then rang. Only then did I hear the screaming.

Moments later I could see again, and there were bowed heads, ducked and tucked under hands and knees. The hand holding mine was gone.

“Put the gun down!” someone shouted. “Put it down now!”

I was still standing. I looked straight ahead, straight in front of me, and saw a pale arm extended in my direction. Holding a gun.

It clattered to the steps. A wave of screams erupted with the bounce.

I didn’t recognize the woman standing in front of me. She was older, her face splotchy and red, with streaks of mascara trailing down her skin. Her finger pointed at me like an accusation.

I heard the voice of Rachel in my mind, the voice of my best friend.

“How am I going to die?”

“He killed her,” the woman said calmly. “He killed my baby.”

Officers surrounded the woman and gently, reverently placed her hands behind her back. “Cheryl Palmer, you have the right to remain silent.”

The piece semi-circled the board, sailing past A through K, and crept past L. It settled on M.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Landed on A.

The sound died away, and the pressure lifted from my hand. I looked beside me, but Noah wasn’t there.

Zigzagged across the board, cutting Rachel’s laughter short. R.

Panic overcame me, threatened to pull me under as I searched for him with feral eyes. There was a flurry of activity to my right; a swarm of EMTs buzzing around the leaking body on the courthouse steps.

Then back to the beginning. To A

Noah knelt beside it. My knees almost buckled to see him alive, not shot. Relief flooded me, and I took another step just to be closer to him. But then I glimpsed the body lying on the ground. It was not Leon Lassiter.

It was my father.

59

A MACHINE BEEPED TO THE LEFT OF MY father’s hospital bed as another on his right hissed. He’d been joking an hour ago, but the pain medication had put him back to sleep. My mother, Daniel, Joseph, and Noah were all huddled around the bed.

I hung back. There was no room for me.

I had never been there to witness it before, that exquisite moment when my thoughts became action. Just yesterday, I surveyed the chaos—the chaos I wanted—and stood there helpless as my father’s blood flooded over the white marble stairs. A grieving mother was arrested, taken from her broken family to be locked away. But she was a danger to no one.

I was a danger to everyone.

A doctor poked his head into the room. “Mrs. Dyer? Can I speak with you for a moment?”

My mother stood up and tucked her hair behind her ear. She had spent the night at the hospital but looked like she’d been here for a thousand years. She made her way over to the door where I stood, and slipped around behind me, her hand brushing mine. I winced.

The doctor’s words trailed through the open door. I listened.

“I have to tell you, Mrs. Dyer, your husband is one lucky man.”

“So he’s going to be okay?” My mother’s voice was stretched to the breaking point. Tears welled in my eyes.

“He’s going to be fine. It’s a miracle he didn’t bleed to death on the way here,” the doctor said.

I heard a sob escape my mother’s throat.

“I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years of practice.”

My gaze flicked to Noah. He sat next to Joseph and stared at my father, his eyes shadowed and dark. They didn’t meet mine.

“When can he come home?” my mother asked.

“A few days. He’s recovering from the bullet wound beautifully, and we’re really just keeping him here for observation. To make sure he doesn’t get an infection and that the healing continues. Like I said, he’s one lucky man.”

“And Mr. Lassiter?”

The doctor’s voice lowered. “He’s still unconscious, but there will probably be significant brain damage. He might not wake up.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Tasker.” My mother ducked back into the room and headed over to my father’s bedside. I watched her as she fit seamlessly into the little tableau, where she belonged.

I took one more look at my family. I knew every laugh line on my mother’s face, every smile that Joseph had, and every shift of expression in Daniel’s eyes. And I looked at my father, too—at the face that taught me how to ride a bicycle, that caught me when I was too scared to jump into the deep end of the pool. The face that I loved. The face I’d let down.

And then there was Noah. The boy who fixed my father but couldn’t fix me. He had tried, though. I knew that now. Noah was the one I never knew I’d been waiting for, but I chose to let him go. And I chose wrong.

All of my choices had been wrong. Everything I touched I would destroy. If I stayed, it could be Joseph or Daniel or my mother or Noah, next. But I couldn’t just disappear; with my parents’ resources, I’d be found in hours.

My mother sniffed then, stealing my attention. And I realized—I could tell her. I could tell her the truth about what I’d done, with Mabel’s owner and Morales and in the Everglades. She would surely have me committed.

But was a mental hospital where I belonged? I knew my parents—they’d make sure I went somewhere where there would be art therapy and yoga and endless discussions about my feelings. And the truth was that I wasn’t crazy. I was a criminal.

All of a sudden, I knew where I needed to go.

I looked at each of them once more. I said a silent good-bye.

I slipped out of my father’s hospital room just as Noah’s head turned in my direction. I wove through the hallways, cutting a path through the nurses and orderlies as I went. Past the waiting room, still peppered with a few reporters from the day before. I walked past everyone, straight to Daniel’s car, parked under a murder of crows that had alighted on a cluster of trees by the parking lot. I got into the car and turned the key in the ignition. I drove until I reached the Thirteenth Precinct of the Metro Dade Police. I got out of my car, closed the door behind me, and walked up the stairs so that I could confess.

Detective Gadsen had been suspicious the last time we spoke, and I would simply confirm what he might already guess to be true. I would tell him that I had crushed Mabel’s owner’s skull. That I stole Morales’s EpiPen, and released fire ants inside her desk. I was too young to be sent to prison, but there was a solid chance I’d end up in the juvenile detention center. The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was the most self-destructive thing I could think of, and I so badly needed to self-destruct.

I could hear nothing but the throb of my heartbeat as my feet hit the concrete. The sound of my breathing as I took what I hoped would be my last free steps. I walked into the building and up to the front desk and told the officer I needed Detective Gadsen.

I didn’t notice the person behind me, not until I heard his voice.

“Can you tell me where I can report a missing person? I think I’m lost.”

My legs filled with lead. I turned.

He looked at me from under the brim of that Patriots cap he always wore and smiled. A silver Rolex glinted on his wrist.

It was Jude.

Jude.

In the police station. In Miami.

Five feet away.

I closed my eyes. He couldn’t be real. He wasn’t real. I was hallucinating, just—

“Through those doors and down that hallway,” the cop said.

My eyes flew open, and I watched the officer point behind me.

“First door on the left,” he said to Jude.

I looked slowly from the officer to Jude as my veins flooded with fear and my mind flooded with memories. The first day at school, hearing Jude’s laugh and then seeing him forty feet away. The restaurant in Little Havana, watching him appear after Noah left and before that boy Alain sat in his seat.

The night of the costume party? The open door to our house?

Another memory flickered in my mind. “Investigators are having trouble recovering the remains of eighteen-year-old Jude Lowe due to the wings of the landmark that are still standing, but could collapse at any moment.”

It was impossible. Impossible.

Jude raised his hand to wave at the officer; he caught my eye and his watch caught the light.

My mouth formed Jude’s name, but no sound came out.

Detective Gasden appeared then and said something, but his voice was muffled and I didn’t hear it. I barely felt the pressure of his hand on my arm as he tried to lead me away.

“Jude,” I whispered, because he was all I saw.

He walked toward me and his arm brushed mine lightly, so lightly, as he passed.

I felt myself fracture.

He pushed open the doors. He didn’t turn around.

I tried to reach him as the doors swung shut, but I found that I couldn’t even stand. “Jude!” I screamed. Strong hands held me up, held me back, but it didn’t matter. Because no matter how I looked then, broken and wild on the floor, for the first time since that night at the asylum, my biggest problem wasn’t that I was losing my mind. Or even that I was a murderer.

It was that Jude was still alive.