Constance nodded, immediately parking the car along the left side. They exited the car, then raced down the street toward the shelter as the first explosions sounded.
There wasn’t enough time.
Her heart raced as she clutched William to her chest and ran with Constance at her side.
They were a block away.
“Faster!” Scarlett shouted as another earth-shaking boom sounded behind them.
The word had barely left her mouth when the telltale sound of a high-pitched whistle filled her ears, and their world blew apart.
…
The relentless ringing in her ears was only broken by the sound of William’s cry.
Scarlett pried her eyes open, pushing past the pain that screamed through her ribs.
It took a few disoriented seconds to get her bearings, to remember what had happened.
They’d been bombed.
Minutes. Hours? How much time had passed? William!
He cried again, and Scarlett rolled to her side, nearly weeping with relief at the sight of his tearful face wailing beside her.
She brushed the dirt and dust from his cheeks, but his tears only smeared the streaks. “It’s okay, love. Mummy is right here,” she promised, pulling him into her arms as her eyes swept over the destruction around them.
The blast had blown them into a garden bed, which had miraculously sheltered William. Her ribs ached and her ankle protested, but other than those small inconveniences, she was okay. She struggled to sit, holding William against her chest, and startled at the sight of blood slowly oozing from a gash on her shin, but she gave it only a cursory glance as dread filled her chest, replacing the ache in her ribs.
Where was Constance?
The building they’d been running by was nothing but a heap of rubble, and she coughed when her lungs took in more dirt than air.
“Constance!” she screamed, panic overtaking her.
The iron fence of the garden they’d landed in was broken, and through the gap of the bars, Scarlett caught a glimpse of red.
Constance.
She struggled to her feet, her lungs and ribs protesting with vehemence as she staggered toward the scrap of fabric she recognized as Constance’s dress. Her arm caught on something, and she gazed down with confusion. Her handbag was still looped around her arm, and she’d snagged it on one of the iron bars. She yanked it free and stumbled a few more feet before falling to her knees at Constance’s side, careful to keep William from the harsh blocks of stone that lay around his aunt… That lay on his aunt.
No. No. No.
God couldn’t be this cruel, could he? A scream built up in Scarlett’s throat, then ripped free as she used one arm and all her strength to shove the offensive, ugly piece of masonry from her sister’s chest.
The warmth drained from her body, her soul, as she stared at Constance’s dust-and-blood-covered face.
“No!” she screamed. It couldn’t end like this. This couldn’t be Constance’s fate.
William began to cry harder, as if he, too, felt the light grow dimmer in the world.
She gripped her sister’s hand, but there was no response.
Constance was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Georgia
Dear Scarlett,
Marry me. Yes, I mean it. Yes, I’m going to ask you again and again until you’re my wife. It’s only been two days since I left Middle Wallop, and I can barely breathe, that’s how much I already miss you. I love you, Scarlett, and it’s not the kind of love that fades with distance or time. I’m yours and have been since the first time I looked into your eyes. I’ll be yours no matter how much time passes before I see your eyes again. Always.
Jameson
“Do you think fifty thousand would cover it for the district?” I asked, wedging the phone between my ear and very sore shoulder as I took notes. I’d pushed it too hard this morning at the gym, but at least I hadn’t fallen.
“That’s more than enough! Thank you!” the librarian—Mr. Bell—exclaimed.
“You’re very welcome.” I grinned. This was the best part of my job. “I’ll send the check out today.”
“Thank you!” Mr. Bell repeated.
We hung up, and I opened the corporate checkbook to the next blank check. The Scarlett Stanton Foundation for Literacy. I brushed my finger over the scrolling script, then filled out the check, this time to a school district in Idaho.
The guidelines were simple: schools that needed books got money for books.
Gran would have loved it.
I dated the check March first, then sealed it into the envelope and scheduled a pickup with an overnight courier. There. Done. Now I could get to the studio.
A pen with a New York Mets logo rolled as I opened the top drawer, and my heart sank all over again, just like it did every single day. Noah’s pen.
Because for nearly three months, this hadn’t just been Gran’s desk—my desk—it had been Noah’s, too. And because throwing that pen away wouldn’t change that fact, I put the checkbook in the drawer and shut it again.
The pen was my smallest reminder, anyway.
He was everywhere I looked. I saw us dancing in the living room every time I spotted the phonograph, heard the low timbre of his voice every time I ventured into the greenhouse. He was in my kitchen, making me tea. My entryway, kissing me breathless. My bedroom, making love to me. He was in this very office, admitting that he’d lied.
I sucked in a deep breath but didn’t push away the pain. Feeling it was the only way through it. Otherwise I’d be the same shell I’d been after Damian.
The doorbell rang, and I took the envelope to the entryway, but it wasn’t the courier on the other side when I opened the door.
I blinked in pure disbelief, my jaw dropping an inch before I snapped my mouth shut with an audible click.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Damian asked, thrusting a vase of flowers in my direction. “Happy seventh anniversary, sweetheart.”
I weighed the gleeful thought of shutting the door in his face with the satisfaction of knowing exactly why he was here, and went with the latter, stepping back to let him in, then shutting the door as a frigid breeze swept over my skin.
“Thanks, I forgot how cold it is here,” he said, holding the flowers—pale pink roses—with an expectant look.
“What do you want, Damian?” I set the envelope on the entry table. What ploy was he going to try to use to get what he wanted? Guilt? Bribery? Emotional extortion?
“I wanted to talk business.” His brow furrowed as he realized I wasn’t taking the flowers, and he put them next to the envelope.