Liv was nodding. She knew it by the taste of salt; her nodding had shaken free tears, hopefully the last she’d taste for a while. Doug disintegrated into the hallway without Liv having said a single word to A, not even the simple shushes she’d made hours earlier: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
She lay down and pressed a pillow over her face, still ripe with A’s odor, and told herself, over and over, that this was the only way all of this could ever realistically end. Anything else—rescuing her father’s name, discovering the significance of Carbajal—had been a fantasy of heroism that she, no hero, had no hope of pulling off. If she couldn’t be the steadfast soldier her father had trained her to be, then it was a lucky thing that Doug could.
FOURTH STANZA:
THE HEART’S CELLARDARK
26.
Liv braved the shed late that afternoon, and before she could reach the first bulb, she could see that all messes had been cleaned. There were no signs that A had ever existed, and Liv wondered if, over time, she might convince herself that that was true. The only task left was to dismantle and destroy Amputator, Hangman’s Noose, Crusher, Hard Passage, Neckbreaker, and Abyss. Difficult tasks, but ones for which she’d waited a very long time.
What she didn’t expect, upon yanking the light string, was that the shed wasn’t only cleaned, but cleared. And shed was the right word now, not Armory: Doug, in completist fervor, had taken every last one of Lee Fleming’s weapons from their pegs and hooks. All that remained were twenty-some chalk outlines and several dangling chains.
Liv’s sense of loss throbbed like a toothache. The weapons, though born of crazed obsession, had been tangible proof of her father’s life. But she’d relinquished Resurrection Update to Doug without a fight, and he would have considered the weapons part of the same deal: He was Lee’s rightful heir, not her. She found herself staring at the wrist compass, the only artifact she had left. She watched the nervous wobble of the needle, how it pointed north no matter what. Maybe it could still lead her in the right direction.
She plucked Mist from her bedroom floor and placed the weapon in the back seat of the station wagon, safekeeping until the next time she passed an unobserved dumpster.
Liv walked into Bloughton High’s halls two days later feeling untethered and shaky, and that fragile openness, in contrast to the guarded clench and evasive ducking of the past weeks, must have shown. People’s looks lingered, as if she were crying, and they couldn’t ignore the urge to comfort. For some, shame at having attended Doug’s “show” might have had a part. Maybe they’d been sympathetic to her all along, and she’d just been unwilling to see it.
Krista was standing right next to Liv’s locker when Liv reached it. Krista hadn’t planned it; she’d been held up by the calculus teacher. But the teacher scuttled off and there they were, the two of them planted in front of each other like gunslingers. Liv stared, emptied of artifice, as vulnerable as a creature zip-tied in front of someone who hated it.
Krista formed a child’s deep frown, an exaggeration to lighten the sadness.
“Oh, Liv,” she said weepily.
Liv shrugged vaguely, not knowing what to say, but needing her friend back badly, so badly. Krista did not disappoint. Her arms lifted, and Liv found that she still knew how this worked. She tilted into Krista’s embrace, and her arms, acquainted with holding Bruno in passion and A in sorrow, tightened around Krista in regret.
“I’m sorry,” Liv whispered.
“Don’t be,” Krista said into her ear.
They unlocked but held on to each other’s forearms. Liv didn’t want to be so far from her friends ever again; it took all her willpower not to pull Krista back against her body.
“None of us went to that thing of Doug’s,” Krista said. “I want you to know that. We knew it wasn’t right. How is he?”
“I don’t know,” Liv said, and she didn’t.
Krista nodded. “Okay. Well, you better sit with us at lunch, all right?”
Liv felt a flutter of panic. But social panic was a gift after the life-and-death burdens that had controlled her emotions for weeks.
“I can’t,” Liv said. “I’m too embarrassed.”
Krista frowned sternly. “Stop it. We miss you.”
“Even Monica?”
Krista laughed. “She’s actually human. She just doesn’t like anyone to know it.”
She squeezed Liv’s arm and departed. Liv opened her locker and hid her face inside it for half a minute, flushing so hot that she felt as if she were lying on a warm beach towel surrounded by her circle of friends and laughing so loudly she could barely hear the distant tide: Car. Bow. Hole.
Doug wasn’t at school. Liv hadn’t expected him to be. He was off doing—no, she wouldn’t let herself think about it. She had to focus on her future. That meant, for now, presenting a cold front to Bruno. Liv hoped there might be a time when it was safe to resume some kind of relationship with him, if he would accept it. But she’d been too impulsive with too many things. She needed to see Doug one more time and ensure that all danger had passed. For Doug and Liv, yes, but also for anyone Liv might like, or even love.
She didn’t spot Bruno until lunch, and not before she was tucked between Darla and Amber, and Monica was monologuing about how she’d fended off some creep at the movie theater. Bruno stood in the aisle, giving Liv an imploring look. Liv met his eyes once, then looked back to Monica, bolting on a smile that felt like iron and insisting to herself this was the only way forward.
When Liv got home, Aggie was there, in that gap between vet clinic and steakhouse, and she’d changed into clothes suitable for scrubbing crud beneath stovetop burners. The rest of the kitchen was sparkling, and Liv’s head swam in the chemical cloud as she watched her mom scour with a strange zeal, like she was hoping to polish away all evidence of their drunken dinner.
“Hi, Mom,” Liv offered.
Aggie didn’t turn from her task. “Look in the trash.”
Liv stepped on the foot lever. Inside were a dozen bottles of alcohol, all emptied.
“That’s everything in the house,” Aggie said.
Liv had a lot of people to whom she owed apologies, and what had been so surprising at school was how, with every one, she’d felt lighter. If not for Bruno, she might float up into the clouds.
The words were easy, really, once you had practice: “Mom, I’m sorry.”
“You will not be like me,” Aggie said, still scrubbing. “I won’t allow it. If there are problems, we’ll deal with them. No more drinking for me. For you, no more dodging around with Doug or whoever. You’ve got someone you like, you march them straight up to the front door. We’re going to be honest with each other from here on out. It’s the only way we’re going to survive, Liv. We only have a few months left together, after all. Agreed?”
She sounded sad, but it wasn’t a bad thing; the sadness was clear-eyed, aware of its origins. Liv gazed at her mother, hunched uncomfortably over the stove, the back-and-forth jerk of her cleaning arm, her slight frame that, though dented, the world had yet to fell. The rhythmic scratch of the cleaning brush could be the beating of Aggie’s heart, or Liv’s, or both of them, synchronized at last.