Page 84 of The Golden Hour

I’m laughing.

And crying.

And when the tears are gone, left in their wake is a small, tender kernel of peace.

“Should we head out?” asks Finn gently.

I glance around the tent. We’re alone, though I can see Wilson’s silhouette outside and hear her muted voice on a phone call.

“In a minute,” I tell him, picking up my shovel one more time. “There’s one more thing I have to do.”

I know where to dig, of course. I was the one who buried this particular item all those years ago. Two nights before Ant died. The very last time I saw him.

Bury it in the garden. Let the worms come for it as surely as they’re coming for me.

I can’t say why, exactly, I need to find the plaque. More closure, maybe. I want to know what Ant meant when he said the biggest threat to the family was in my head. Though I’m prepared to accept he didn’t mean it in any concrete sense but a more philosophical one, I don’t want to look back in ten years and regret not going the extra step.

Finn watches me as I shovel out dirt from the southwestern corner of the bed. He’s dangerously distracting—blue eyes electric, hair damp from sweat, tattooed arms on display. With effort, I tear my eyes from him and dig.

The moment I touch a tarp-wrapped bundle, I know I’ve found what I’m looking for.

I didn’t bury the plaque in tarp.

Which means Ant dug it up after I last saw him.

“What is that?” asks Finn, moving up behind me.

I’m too taut with nerves to respond. Setting the bundle on my lap, I unwrap it quickly to reveal the familiar plaque. We live in service to the family. It looks the same, old and battered, once a treasure and now trash. Disappointment surges toward me. Maybe he got drunk and nostalgic that night and wrapped it to protect it, thinking I might want it one day.

When I lift the plaque to show it to Finn, something flutters to my lap. A Ziploc bag with paper inside. I shove the plaque into Finn’s hands and grab the bag, barely believing what I’m seeing.

A letter. The letter.

Lined pages are folded in half and filled with my father’s distinct handwriting. On the visible page, my eyes jump from word to word.

Vivian—evidence—storage unit.

“Oh my God,” whispers Finn.

I nod, giddy, and yell, “Wilson!”

43

Moonlight, full and bright and demanding, pierces the gaps in the blinds over the bed. Finn sleeps beside me, his arm locked over my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again. I lie awake. On edge. My mind racing.

The relief and closure I felt three days ago when I found Uncle Ant’s note and the letter from my father has faded. Now all I feel is heavy and heartsick. Stuck in endless limbo as I wait for the debris of my blown-up life to settle. For Ellie to return my calls, for word on Vivian’s court date. For the coroner to release Enzo’s and Franco’s bodies for burial…

My sisters. My uncles. My mother, father, stepmother. Broken or dead, each and every one of us.

I got what I wanted, but it still hurts.

As children, we shape our world through the lens of our immediate family. They are our first teachers in lessons of love and fear, our very foundation of security. As we grow, that lens widens to include others. Friends and romantic partners. Classmates and teachers, colleagues and employers. But in crisis, I’ve found that our view of the world defaults to our beginnings.

Unless we break the foundation.

Rabbit was the first person I trusted enough to share details of my childhood with. A lifetime of secrets, suspicions, and fears came out. It was a miracle she believed me at all, but she had her own difficult story to tell. She understood the unique burden of being born at odds with your bloodline, and she helped me take the first step in freeing myself.

Neither of us could have known that the final step would be up to me, and that I would have to come home to take it.

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