Page 88 of Not Today, Satan
When I’m confident I know where I’m going, I return to Nate.
My chest squeezes at the sight of him.
Oh, Nate. I’m sorry. I did this to you. And I’m going to save you. I promise.
The sheet covering him is soaked in sweat, the cloth warm under my fingers. He doesn’t react when I take his hand. “Hang on, Nate. I’m going to fix this. But you need to stick around a little while longer. Can you do that?”
Silence is his only answer.
I take a shuddering breath before dropping his hand and exiting the room, stopping only to take one more look at him. Just in case it’s the last one I ever get.
XLII.
The sun is at its highest when I take off from my mother’s backyard and race toward the few clouds patterning the sky.
This is only the second time I’ve used my wings, but they’re as strong as they were when I saved Nate from the bridge. My stomach coils at the memory. It might have been better if I’d let him fall into the fire. At least he wouldn’t spend his afterlife in Lot Thirteen.
While Nate’s house didn’t appear far on Mom’s tiny device, it takes forever before I spot the small cluster of homes she’d circled with her index finger.
I descend too quickly, landing with a grunt, and roll across the front lawn of 287, the house number I memorized from Nate’s file.
The home he lived—and died—in is taller my mother’s one-story house, but while her place is well maintained, with pristine paint and a manicured lawn, this one appears to be abandoned. No one’s cut the grass I shake off my dress in a very long time. It prickles my feet through the open-toed shoes my mother insisted I wear so that she could clean my boots.
A weatheredfor salesign creaks as a breeze rushes by. The windows are dark, and no one answers my persistent knocks on the thick oak door.
My shoulders droop, and I drop my hand to my side.
So much for questioning Nate’s family.
I turn to leave, then stop.
Sherlock wouldn’t give up this easily. He’d search the house for clues. Even if that meant breaking and entering. Besides, is it even a crime if no one lives here?
I’m not totally up on Earth rules, but if Sherlock can do it, so can I.
The front door’s locked, so I circle to the back of the house and try each window until one pops open with a satisfying squeak. I boost myself over the ledge, sucking in my gut and wriggling my hips through. I tumble to the floor in a roll before coming to rest on my back in the middle of the room, panting.
I hold my breath and wait, but the only sound is my own racing heartbeat.
Pushing myself up, I glance around.
The room is dark save for the rectangle of light emanating from the window I dropped through. It smells damp, like the caves in Lapis. I feel along the wall until my fingers hit a light switch and flick it up. A single lamp above my head bathes the room in yellow light.
If someone’s abandoned this place, they forgot some of their stuff.
Boxes are stacked against the walls and beneath a set of stairs, the bottom ones bulging from the weight of those on top. Each one is labeled in black marker: neat handwriting, all in caps. Words likehalloweenandchristmasandboard gamestattoo them.
One box draws my attention. It’s smaller than the others, tucked in the back like a secret. The writing on it doesn’t match the rest—the edges of the letters are jagged and don’t always meet where they should. They’re imprinted so deeply on the box that they’ve left a dent. The hairs on my neck stand at attention as I run my fingers along the black lettering:nate.
He’s not forgotten, after all.
I kneel in front of the box and pry it open. A familiar face grins at me from the top of the pile, and blood pounds to my head. It’s a smile I’ve spent the last year with, one I’m desperate to see again.
Nate has his arm around an older human with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache. They beam at the camera, the flash bathing them with a white light. In front of them sits a chocolate cake with blue icing that reads “Happy Birthday, Nate” in scripted letters.
Although Nate’s never described Gabe to me, this is unmistakably him. His eyes gleam, his head is tilted toward Nate, love etched as deep in his features as Nate’s name was on this box.
A twinge of jealousy tugs at my chest. What I would give for someone to look at me that way.
