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“You must be Una.”
When last we spoke, Sister Angela heard me at my absolute worst—over the phone, when she confirmed that Finn was dead. I might still be clenching my hands into painfully tight fists to stave off the emotion this time, but I’m not falling apart at the seams now as we meet face-to-face for the first time.
She smiles as she steps out from behind her desk in the slightly cluttered but quaint little office of Hope House, the halfway home for the at-risk and in need on Staten Island.
Where Finn died.
“I’m Sister Angela. We spoke…” she smiles sadly and shakes her head as she takes my hands in hers. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, sweetheart.”
I force a painful smile, nodding. “Thank you.”
Cillian remains like a rock behind me, one hand on the small of my back.
“So many of God’s children come through these doors,” she sighs. “But I have to say, there was something very, very special about your bother. He was a good soul.”
“He was the best,” I murmur quietly.
She winces. “I’m afraid, since it was so long before we even knew he had family, his few belongings have already been donated to those in need.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s fine. It’s not why I’m here.”
She nods. “All right, dear. I can show you where he’s buried, or I can just tell you the plot number and you can make you way there yourself, if you like.”
“We can go ourselves.”
Without thinking, I reach back and slip my fingers into Cillian’s—as if I need something solid and real to hold on to right now.
He holds tight and doesn’t let go.
“You’ll find him in row M, number thirty-four.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, I…” She blushes awkwardly. “There is one thing of Finn’s I held on to. It’s not exactly policy, but I couldn’t just throw it away. And a part of me always hoped that someone would come for it one day.”
She bustles back to her desk, opens a drawer, and rummages around inside before pulling out a notebook of some kind.
No, asketchbook.
My eyes tear up as she smiles and hands it to me.
“He was so very good at drawing.”
I smile a crooked, sad smile. “He always loved to, when we were kids.”
“He really was good. I don’t know when you last spoke. But he used to talk about becoming a tattoo artist one day.”
A tear slides down my cheek as I open the pages, flipping slowly through truly incredible pencil sketches and ink drawings of tattoo ideas: everything from hardcore biker stuff, to gorgeous floral designs, realistic animals, and some really incredible free-hand lines of text—mostly lyrics from favorite songs of his.
I pause, choking slightly when I come to a stunning, full-page design. At the bottom of the page, in his handwriting, it says “for Lunatic.”
His nickname for me.
The design is…unreal. It’s intricate, and complicated, and full of delicate lines and dot-work shading. It’s so “me” it hurts. And every single part of the composition is significant.
The main focus is waterlilies, from my love of Monet’s works. There was a traveling exhibit once that came through LACMA—the Los Angeles County Museum of Art—that we decided we had to go see. Somehow, we panhandled and pickpocketed enough cash to take a cab out to the museum and get tickets, even though it meant walking home after.
The next week, Finn surprised me with another trip back to the museum, just for me, because he knew how much I’d loved the waterlilies the first time.
