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I don’t like the shift in tone of Nathan’s voice that indicates he’s talking about me. It’s as though he’s no longer addressing an equal but a child or a plaything.
“None of your business,” Cole snaps.
I frown in his direction. I don’t need him defending me, but I’m surprised that he’d sound so . . . protective on my behalf.
We walk past Nathan, who wears a spicy aftershave that clears out my sinuses. I instantly decide I don’t trust men who wear too much cologne. What is he covering up?
The air shifts as we enter the house, less heavy with humidity and cooler. “Rafael!” Sarah says, sounding happy.
“Sarah! So good to see you again. And this must be Adam, which makes you Annie.” The speaker has a soft, musical accent that makes it harder for me to get much from his tone. It also makes me wish I could see his face, because his voice is very, very hot. A cheek brushes mine and I start, surprised, as he kisses the air next to my face.
He backs away, laughing. “I hate shaking hands. Don’t look so frightened, Adam, I promise not to kiss you. Where are you from, Annie?”
I smile nervously. “Colorado, originally. Lately of Chicago. I’m dead, though. Just for the record.”
“Naturally.” Rafael sounds amused, and I want him to like me so I can hear him talk more. “So you’re Fia’s sister.”
The way he states it gives me pause. “Do you know her?”
He laughs again, a laugh that holds secrets. “We’ve met, yes.”
“Did she stab you, too?”
This time the laugh is easy and loud. “No, nothing so dramatic.”
“Good. She has a habit of doing that apparently.”
“She destroyed my knee,” Nathan grumbles from behind us. I’m not sure if I should apologize. I didn’t to Cole for his stab wound, so I opt not to.
“Any word from our charmingly violent Fia?” Rafael asks.
Sarah answers. “We have a phone she gave Annie, but there hasn’t been any contact.”
“Hmm. Here, sit, I’ll have Nathan get coffee.” Rafael takes my arm and guides me to a leather couch in a carpeted room. “You know your sister better than anyone. Do you have an idea what she might be planning?”
I shake my head, then lean back against the couch. For what feels like the millionth time I rack my brains, trying to think of anything Fia said or did, any indication she might have given me about what her plan was.
I want to be with her, to hear her. I don’t want my last memories of her to be the vision where I thought she killed me, or our tear-filled exchange under the arch.
And then I see her. It rushes in, slamming into my eyes. Fia, wearing a tank top and long, loose, patterned pants. Pajamas. The room is nearly dark, with a pool of warm yellow light drifting out from a single lamp. Fia walks toward it, then pauses, looks down.
At James. I’ve seen him before, and he hasn’t changed, though in sleep he looks far more peaceful than I could have imagined. He’s sprawled on the couch, glasses askew on his face.
She’s going to kill him, I think. I don’t want to see, don’t want to watch her do this, but I can’t avoid what the vision wants to show me.
She reaches down and gently pulls the glasses off his face, closing them and setting them on the floor. Then she leans over, brushes her lips against his forehead, and turns off the lamp.
With the sweetest, most content smile on her face I could ever have imagined.
Darkness reclaims my eyes, and for once I am grateful to be back where I belong, back where life makes sense. She smiled. Not the dead-girl, hollow smile I’d seen in visions past. She looked . . . whole. With him.
“Are you okay?” Cole asks.
“I saw her,” I whisper.
“Who?” I can feel Rafael leaning in close to me.
“Fia. She was with James.” I cover my face, sick to my stomach. Because now I finally realize, I finally get it.
