He stops and grabs my hand, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Why? Where would you go?”
“I don’t know.” I start to walk again, trailing my feet through the warm water. “Travel, maybe. You know I’ve never even left the United States?”
He looks at me sideways. “You’re out of the United States right now.”
“I mean besides this.”
“I love to travel,” he says. “And it looks like I’m gonna have some free time on my hands. Where do you want to go?”
Why does he have to be so awesome?
“I don’t know.”
I can tell he’s disheartened by my lack of enthusiasm, but he doesn’t push. When we reach the outcropping of rocks that marks the end of the beach, he scoops up Mary Elizabeth and we scramble up the boulders to the top, where we stand watching the sun sink into the sea in a blaze of amber.
The temptation to travel with Jackson is almost enough to make me reconsider. But if he knew the truth of who I am, of why I’m here, of the lies I’ve told him—he wouldn’t want anything to do with me. And I can’t live a lie anymore.
My revenge tour is coming to an abrupt end without my learning anything definitive about my mother’s death or executing any part of my plan. Well, that’s not totally true. I can almost say with certainty that Stella’s not responsible, and whether or not he murdered anyone, the world would unquestionably be a better place without Cole Power in it. But what purpose would killing him serve, other than to ruin me? Iris is gone; nothing can change that. I’m finally starting to be able to imagine a life for myself beyond all this, and it seems wrong to allow him to steal both my mother’s future and my own. It also seems wrong to let him walk free, but life isn’t fair. Jackson talks a lot about allowing. Maybe this is my time to learn that.
I feel him looking at me but keep my eyes trained on the horizon. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,” I murmur. “My mom had this poster of the Eiffel Tower in her room when I was a kid, and we dreamed about going, but it never happened. I want to spread her ashes there.”
“Funny,” he says. “My mom lives in Paris. I’d love to take you there.”
His gaze is still on me, but I don’t turn, for fear he might kiss me—or perhaps for fear he might not. Finally he laughs, and I meet his olive eyes. “What?”
“You’re like a rosebud,” he says. “Slowly opening to the sun.”
Hot tears spring to my eyes, I don’t know why. It was a cheesy thing to say, but the thing is, it’s true. I’ve been so tightly closed for so long, and suddenly, terribly inconveniently, I’ve begun to open. He wraps his arms around me, and I bury my wet face in his T-shirt. We’ve never been so close. I can hear his heartbeat beneath the warmth of his skin, and for the first time in thirteen years, I feel almost hopeful. But I don’t dare look up; what could he possibly want with me? Regardless of my plans for an honest future, right now I’m a lie, and he deserves better.
We stand like that, the ocean breeze soft on our skin, until the color has drained from the sky. Finally, Mary Elizabeth starts yapping, impatient for her dinner. “I have to feed her,” I say, kneeling beside her as an excuse not to look at him.
I scratch behind her ears and scoop her up, then scamper down the rocks to the sand. The entire way back to the bungalows in the gloaming, we speak lightly of matters of no consequence, but something’s shifted between us. Thickened. If only I were the girl he thinks I am.
His bungalow is closer to shore than mine, and when we reach it, he turns to me with an inviting half smile. “Wanna chill here?”
“I can’t,” I say. “I’ve gotta check on Stella—I’ve left her alone all day.”
“Good luck,” he says. “Hope she’s not too drunk.”
“Thanks.” I blow him a kiss.
I push open the door to my bungalow to find it dark and quiet. “Stella?” I call out. No answer.
I flip on a lamp and pour Mary Elizabeth’s dinner into a bowl in the kitchen, then call out again, “Hello? Anybody home?”
When she still doesn’t answer, I shed my shoes and tromp back to her room. I nudge open her door to find her curled in a ball on top of the bed in the growing darkness, softly crying into a pillow. “Stella?”
I turn on the lamp next to the bed, and my heart detonates in my chest. A series of sketches are spread around her on the down comforter, unmistakably my mother’s. I hear a strangled sound come out of my throat.
“Go away,” she wails without looking up.
But I’m not going anywhere. All this time she’s kept the truth shut up and locked away, and suddenly the door is open, light spilling through the crack. It’s up to me to walk through it and learn the truth before she slams it shut again.
I gingerly pick up a sketch of Iris asleep on a red blanket, her golden hair spread around her. I notice the paper quivering slightly and realize my hand is shaking. I want nothing more than to examine each of the drawings, to see the world through my mother’s eyes, taking in each detail of her sketch work, but I can’t let Stella detect my desperate interest. I
