Maybe I haven’t properly described to you how awesome this mural was. Babette had designed it so the butterflies were the same size as the kids. So that when you walked in and saw it, you felt like you were among the butterflies. The plants were supersized, and the butterflies were hyperrealistic. All native plants, too, and native butterflies, and we’d labeled them—in pretty cursive script—so that the kids would come to know them—so that when they saw them out in the real world, around town, or fluttering over the dunes, they’d be able to say, “Look! A Gulf fritillary!”

It was all Babette’s design. I’d just helped to fill in the colors, like paint-by-number. It had taken full working days, all summer long. But we had put on music and Max had brought us tacos for lunch. And I’m not exaggerating when I say it was a masterpiece. Breathtaking, colorful, and alive somehow—filled with sunshine.

And I never appreciated that more than when it was suddenly … gray.

I knew Duncan was planning to paint over the stripes and the hopscotch patterns and the accent walls. But it had never occurred to me that the mural was in danger.

I’d assumed it was too beautiful to destroy.

Wrongly. Apparently.

I was out of breath now—feeling urgent and panicked—like there was an emergency. But there was no emergency anymore. Everything was already done. I was just witnessing the aftermath.

Duncan hadn’t answered.

“Did you paint over the mural?” I asked, now just openly staring at the gray wall.

“Not me,” Duncan said, like this was any kind of a valid point. “The painters.”

“How could you?”

“In my defense, I thought they’d start with the hallways.”

“You have no defense. There is no defense.”

“You got the memo. It’s for—”

“Visibility,” I finished in a hollow voice.

“Look how much better we can see now.”

Now I turned to stare at him. “Is that a joke? Do you really think this is better?” Of all the changes he’d forced on us since he’d arrived, this one—this one—broke my heart.

“I understand,” Duncan said, sounding like a robot.

“No. You don’t.”

“The mural was beautiful, but—”

“The mural,” I interrupted, my voice shaking as I worked to hold it back, “wasn’t just beautiful. It was magic. It was irreplaceable. It left you in awe. It made you feel like you were part of something bigger than yourself. And it was Babette’s. And Max’s. And mine. And all the children in this room. And it wasn’t yours to destroy.”

I saw his shoulders sink a little at that. How dare he look disappointed? How dare he have any feelings about anything?

“Look—” he started, but my eyes snapped to his, and whatever he saw in my face stopped him cold.

I could feel the tears in my eyes as I stepped closer to him. “You. Are. Killing. This. Place.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I’m protecting it.”

“I’ve been rooting for you,” I said. “I’ve been hoping you’d come around. But all that ends now. I officially give up hope. And I’m going to fight you like crazy.”

I started to walk away.

“Hey,” Duncan called after me.

I turned back. What could he possibly have to say?

“You still have lunch duty.”

I walked right back over to him, my face shiny with tears and my eyes blazing—and I pulled him down by the shoulder so I could get my mouth right next to his ear. Then, because we were in a room full of children, I cupped my hand to constrain the sound, and then, right up next to him, I whispered, “Fuck lunch duty.”

twelve

And then it was winter break—and man, oh, man, did I need it.

This was Babette’s year of firsts—her first Thanksgiving without Max, her first Christmas. We’d decided to spend every one of those firsts that we could somewhere else. We’d driven to San Antonio for Thanksgiving, and now, for Christmas, we’d made reservations at a resort near Austin.

Babette and Max had always hosted a giant feast on Christmas for “anybody who didn’t have somewhere to be,” and Babette was worried that all those people who counted on her would feel adrift without her. But she needed to get away. And so did I.

“Is this about Duncan Carpenter?” Babette asked.

“Don’t say that name in this house,” I said.

Babette smiled. It was her house.

But this wasn’t a smiling matter.

I had told her about the butterflies, and she had shrugged, and said, “Nothing lasts forever.” But she hadn’t gone back to the cafeteria after that. She’d eaten every lunch alone in the art room.

“Fair enough,” Babette said. And then she gently, and without irony, listened to me complain for a good long while about how the last thing I wanted to think about, or focus on, or talk about—ever again—was Duncan Carpenter.

See what I did there?

And then, just when I thought I was truly done with him, just when I thought I’d finally shut it all down … the very next day, I ran into him on the beach.

It was a bright, sunny, fifty degrees out, and I’d decided to take a long, calming Duncan Carpenter–free walk by the ocean. The winter beach was mostly empty, and my plan was to get lost in the sound of the waves and the wash of the wind. A jogger went by, and then a lady walking her bulldog, and then a couple appeared on my horizon: a man and a woman strolling just at the edge of the waves, and as they got close enough for me to see who they were, it turned out to be Duncan, with … a woman.

And just like that: I wasn’t done with him anymore.

A very pretty woman, I should mention. Not that I was being weird about it. But it was a thing that was hard to not notice. Anyone would have noticed.

Okay, fine. It bothered me.

A noxious gas of jealousy seeped into my lungs as they came closer.

The woman was wearing a smart black winter coat with a ruby-colored scarf. And Duncan … well, Duncan’s hair was windblown into a messy, bed-head, Old Duncan–style, and he was in jeans and a red, cheerful Norwegian sweater … and get this: He was smiling.

He dropped the smile as soon as he saw me, though.

I dropped mine, too, on principle.

That’s when Chuck Norris came leaping out of the dunes and went streaking past us—fast as a greyhound, skittering over the wet sand at the water’s edge.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” the woman said back—and then Duncan, lingering behind, said, “Hello.”

A pause.

Finally, the woman said, “The two of you must … know each other?”

“From work,” Duncan confirmed.

“I’m Sam,” I said, holding out my hand to shake. “The librarian from Kempner.”

Her eyes got big, and delighted at that—and maybe a little bit … teasing? “Sam!” she singsonged. “The librarian! From Kempner!” Then she turned in an exaggerated way to Duncan—who looked, in turn, defeated.

“Sam,” Duncan said to me, “This is Helen. My sister. Who hates me.”

His sister.

I released a breath.

What is it about a man in a Norwegian sweater?

Helen turned to me and looked me up and down—at my pom-pom scarf and my knitted hat with earflaps and braided ties hanging down. Then she gave me a very quick hug, said, “You’re adorable!” and spun herself around to start dragging the both of us back the way they had just come. “Let’s take her to meet the crew!” she said, as we fell into step and Chuck Norris led the way.

I couldn’t think of a polite way to tell her that her brother was a mural murderer—and that I had just decided he was my mortal enemy forever. She was just so … cheerful. I couldn’t find a way to work it in.

“And what are you doing for Christmas?” she asked me.

“I’m going to Austin. With a friend. Whose husband died last summer.” I glanced at Duncan like that was somehow his fault.

But this lady Helen was not picking up my bitter tone. “That’s sounds fun.” She took off jogging toward Chuck Norris, who’d found a tennis ball. She took it and pelted it farther ahead, toward a group of people down the beach.

“That’s your sister,” I said, as we watched her run off.

“Yeah.”

“I thought she was your girlfriend.”

Duncan burst out with a laugh. “No. No girlfriend. Not since—a long time.”

I shrugged. “That seems like a shame.”

That landed wrong. Duncan was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Hey, I’m glad we ran into you.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to tell you something. About the mural.”

“Nope,” I said. “Not talking about that.”

“Yes,” Duncan said. “It’s important.”

“I’m trying to be pleasant right now, but I swear if you get that started, I might seriously drown you in the ocean.”

“Just give me a second to explain—”

But I was shaking my head, turning away.

“Listen!” he shouted.

That got my attention. I turned back.

He pushed out a hard sigh. “The mural’s not gone.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means … they painted over it, yes. But the paint they used—it washes off. It’s water-based. It comes off with a sponge.”

My mouth fell open—and then I just stood there, blinking.

“It’s still there. It’s not gone. I just wanted you to know that.”

I shook my head for a bit before I could pull it together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Uh. Because you are terrifying when you’re that mad. Not even kidding.”