I find a spot under a weeping willow surrounded by concentric rings of weathered gravestones. I sit on the soft bed of grass and read the closest inscription.

  Maya Crane. Beloved wife to Thomas Crane. Devoted mother to Daisy and Henry Crane.

  She was forty-two when she died. Even younger than Mom.

  It strikes me how odd it is that we make cemeteries beautiful. It can’t be for the dead that we tend the grass and water the flowers, right? I mean, they’re obviously not around to appreciate it. It has to be for us, then. For the living. The ones left behind.

  I wonder what stole Maya from her family. An accident? An illness? Fate? In the wrong place at the wrong engagement party?

  I laugh bitterly under my breath. My mom hasn’t been in the ground for more than two minutes and I’m already making sick jokes. Maybe I am fucked up in the head.

  I glance up and notice Ilarion watching me from a distance. He turns away when I catch his gaze. Again, I feel the sting I felt when he brushed past me at the gravesite and kept walking clear to the other side.

  I’m not sure why I expected him to stand next to me. I shouldn’t expect a damn thing from him.

  If he’s here for any reason at all, it’s for Celine. Not me.

  I need to keep reminding myself of that. To keep pressing on that emotional bruise until finally—hopefully—it stops hurting.

  “Taylor, honey?”

  I look up and squint. “Aunt Marianne? Oh my god!”

  I’m struggling to my feet when she stops me. “Don’t bother. I’ll get down there with you,” she says with a wave of her fingers, lowering herself heavily onto the grass next to me.

  She clutches my hand the moment she’s seated and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I missed the service. I got on a plane the moment I got your message, but—”

  “It’s okay.” I feel like a bitch for hoping that no one would show up. That was me being incredibly selfish. “I’m sorry it was so last-minute.”

  “Terrible things never have good timing, do they?” She knocks her shoulder gently against mine.

  I gulp. She has no idea.

  “I can’t believe you flew across the country to be here at the drop of a hat.”

  She sighs and grief lines consume her face. “I really shouldn’t say this, but she’s dead now, so I’ll say whatever the fuck I want: Fiona was always my favorite sister.”

  I almost snort at the sudden and unexpected curse word coming from my otherwise graceful aunt. Instead, I give her a warm smile. “I know. And I really shouldn’t say this, but you were hers.”

  She pats my hand as a tear slips down her cheek. “Monica’s not all bad, you know. She’s just fussy. Too serious about everything. But your momma, she knew how to have fun even when life was shitty. And life was really shitty for her the last few years.”

  My own eyes sting with fresh tears. I thought I was out of those by now, but I guess not. I’m not sure if I’m crying because Aunt Marianne knows exactly how much these last few years have hurt, or because, when I close my eyes, her perfume smells just like Mom’s used to.

  She keeps patting my hand. It’s like she’s trying to remind me that I’m not alone. “So,” she says, “is that Celine’s man?”

  I glance in the direction she’s looking and spot Ilarion talking to a few of Mom’s cousins. We were never very close to any of them, but they live in the state, so they couldn’t avoid coming.

  “That’s him,” I say reluctantly.

  “She told me he was good-looking, but I really didn’t expect… well, that.”

  “Mom told you?”

  “No, Celine did,” Aunt Marianne says. “We speak every week or so. And your mom and I talk—talked, rather—pretty much every day. Which is why I knew something was wrong before I even got your message.”

  I blink and two fat tears slip down my cheeks. I wipe them away hastily and concentrate on the way Aunt Marianne’s hand keeps me anchored to reality.

  “What else did she tell you?” I ask. “About Ilarion, I mean.”

  “Lots of things,” Marianne admits. “But mostly, she was worried that you might not understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Why she wanted to marry him. Why she was rushing into marriage.”

  I do a surprised double-take. “She told you that?”

  Marianne nods. “I think that’s when I realized that she really was in love with him. She knew that you wouldn’t like it, that your father would hate it, and she did it anyway. It was the first time she made a decision for herself, regardless of how it made anyone else feel. I think that realization is what brought Fiona around, too.”

  I’m listening closely, but what I’m hearing is the words between the words. Celine told me… Told everyone but me, it seems. That’s a hurt I wasn’t ready for.

  “I…” I trail off when my eyes land on Ilarion. He’s talking to Dima now, but his eyes flicker to me every so often, almost like he knows that we’re talking about him. “What if…?”

  “What if what?” Marianne asks.

  I tear my eyes away from Ilarion and look at her. Her features are similar to Mom’s, but where Mom was slight of frame, Marianne is bigger, rounder, built for hugs. She’s graying at the temples and her hair is thinning out, and it reminds me that nothing in life is constant. Nothing is guaranteed.

  I have a freeze frame of her in my mind from about ten years ago. Marianne and Mom, both sprawled out across the lawn on a picnic blanket, laughing about their terrible childhood dog while Celine and I kicked a ball around next to them.

  They both seemed so young. I’d had the feeling that they would go on forever. I needed them to go on forever. Because a world without my beautiful mother, a world without my fearless aunt—it just wasn’t a safe one. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a part of it if they weren’t.

  Now that the choice is being forced upon me, I’m still not sure what I want.

  “Honey?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble, realizing that I’ve dazed off yet again.

  “Something’s bothering you about him?”

  There’s so much I could tell her that would make her understand where I’m coming from. But there’s no reason to drag her into something that she won’t be able to fix. And this is well beyond the power of even an Aunt Marianne hug to remedy.

  “I just… I’m worried for Celine. I don’t want her to make a mistake. I don’t want her to get hurt.”

  Aunt Marianne pats my hand again. “There’s two ways to look at it, if you want this silly old lady’s input,” she remarks. “The first is that you could be wrong and Celine might actually know what’s best for herself in this situation.”

  I sigh. “And the second?”

  “That you might be right, and Celine is making a mistake. In which case, it’s a mistake she’s going to have to make and learn from. There’s no forcing anyone to see the light, darling. Especially not when it comes to love.”

  “But—”

  “Do you remember Ronny?”

  I raise my eyebrows. I haven’t heard that name in years. “Your ex-husband?”

  She nods. “That’s the devil. I was thirty-seven when I met him, and I guess I was worried that if I didn’t get married at that point, I never would. So I married him.”

  “I remember. Celine and I were the flower girls.”

  She smiles fondly at the memory. “What you probably don’t know is that both Monica and Fiona told me not to do it. They practically demanded it. Your mother was this close to locking me in a closet until the wedding date passed.”

  “Really?” This is news to me.

  “Monica thought he was flaky, and your mother thought he wasn’t good enough for me. They both tried to talk me out of it. But I told them that I’d prove them wrong. Turned out, they were both right. I ended up a forty-year-old divorcee with nothing to show for my marriage but an empty bank account and three years’ worth of faked orgasms.” She laughs heartily, that big, fill-the-whole-room, from-the-toes-up laugh she does as well as everyone on Earth aside from my own mother. “But, I also have no regrets, because I recognized that I wouldn’t have listened to anyone at that point. The only way I’d have known it was a mistake was by making the damn mistake. It was my life, and it was my right.”

  I exhale tiredly, my eyes veering towards Ilarion once again. I desperately want to tell my aunt about the baby, but I know I won’t be able to take it back once I do.

  So I sit there miserably, arms linked with the last living remnant of my mother’s laugh, drinking in her nostalgic scent and deciding that maybe sunflowers were the right choice after all.

  “I’m scared, Aunt Marianne.”

  “I know,” she says, more tears sliding down her cheeks. “I haven’t lived in a world without your mother for fifty-odd years. That scares me, too.”

  “She wanted to die.” I force out the words. Part of me hopes she doesn’t catch their full meaning. Part of me hopes she does, just so I don’t have to bear this alone.

  Marianne sighs. “I know that, too. But the same principle applies here, too, honey: her life, her choice.”

  “She can’t take this one back, though.”

  “No,” Marianne agrees, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into her warmth. “But for what it’s worth…I don’t think she would want to.”

  34

  ILARION

  I have Dima and Mila drive Taylor back to the Diamond after the funeral.

  Then I spend the next twenty-four hours throwing myself into new leads, new strategies, and new revenge plots that will leave the Bellasio mafia decimated.

  They’re all beautiful goals, but they succeed in keeping me distracted for only a short time. Dima’s back undercover, so I don’t have a sounding board until he returns. And Mila disappeared shortly after we got back from the funeral, so it’s not like I can get her to do my dirty work.

  Which, in this case, would be checking in on Taylor.

  I sigh and make my way towards Taylor’s bedroom. Technically, it’s my bedroom. But since I made the mistake of putting her there, I’ve been sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms downstairs.

  It feels good to slip into the familiar space. My collection of antique weapons hangs on the far corner of the room, and the sunlight streaming through the window lights them up.

  Now that I think about it, housing Taylor in a room with free access to weapons might not have been the best idea. Not that any of the displayed weapons are in battle-ready condition, but they can still do some damage with the right amount of force.

  But the moment I walk into the room, I realize that Taylor’s not in a fighting mood.

  She’s sprawled out on the bed, her arms hiding her face as she sobs into the sheets. I should announce myself, considering she has no idea that I’m here at all, but I can’t for the life of me think of what to say.

  I move closer, watching the way her sobs shudder through her body. The last time I saw someone cry like that, I’d asked them a question that changed the course of both our lives.

  I won’t make that mistake again.

  “Taylor?”

  She jerks upright, her tears waterfalling down her cheeks. “What are you doing here?” she stammers, glancing toward the door.

  “I came to check on you.”

  “Oh, you care about me now?” She laughs bitterly. “That’s news.”

  “I care about the health of the baby.”

  Liar.

  Well, maybe not entirely a lie. Just certainly not the whole truth.

  She falls back against a pillow and hastily wipes her eyes clean. “Don’t be. The baby’s fine. Mission accomplished. You can go now.”

  I should do exactly that. I’ve fulfilled my duty by checking on her. But for some reason, I move closer to her bed instead. “I am sorry, by the way. About Fiona.”

  That takes her by surprise. “I… Thank you,” she says, appearing to think better of whatever jab she was about to make at my expense. “The funeral was… It was really beautiful. How much do we owe you? I can’t pay you back immediately, but I’ll make sure we figure something out.”

  “That’s not necessary. I don’t want to be paid back.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “I don’t want your charity.”

  “It’s not charity. I did it for Celine.”

  She cringes. Or maybe she shivers; I’m not sure which. She doesn’t look comfortable either way. A stray tear slips down her cheek but she’s quick to wipe it away.

  “Right. Have you heard anything?” she asks. “About Celine? Dad?”

  “We’re close to locating them.”

  She shakes her head. “They should have been there today.” Her whole body slumps when she sighs. She looks so delicate and drained, and it bothers me more than I’m allowing myself to admit. “They should have been there to bury her with me.”

  “I know.”

  “I had to lie to everyone, you know,” she blurts, suddenly glaring at me. “With some people, it was easy. But I had to look my Aunt Marianne in the eye and tell her the lie you made up to explain their absence.”

  “It was a necessary lie.” I feel like I’m scolding a child. It would be easier if she wasn’t acting like one. Exhausted or not, grieving or not, I expect her to at least see the sense in the strategy. “There’s no sense involving more people in this. It only puts them in danger.”

  “Don’t lecture me; I know why I had to do it. That doesn’t mean I had to like it.”

  I replace my urge to roll my eyes with a heavy sigh. “If you understand, then why are we debating it?”

  She eyes me warily, reminding me of exactly why I can’t just swap out the two sisters. Taylor would never be able to assimilate into my world. Celine, on the other hand, will fit into whatever box I choose to lock her in.

  I take a tissue from the bedside table and hand it to her. She takes it reluctantly, but instead of dabbing at her eyes, she toys with one corner of it until the threads start to fray.

  “Mila mentioned that you lost your mother young,” she says suddenly. “Do you remember it?”

  I wonder what exactly Mila has told her. I’m surprised that she’s said anything at all. She despises talking about our parents. “Yes, I remember it.” I nod once. The memories deserve nothing more.

  “So you know what I’m feeling right now?”

  “If it’s relief, then yes.”

  “Relief?” She gapes at me. “That’s what you felt when your mother died?”

  “She was miserable for so long,” I admit, realizing even as I say it that no amount of explanation can properly convey what I felt when her internal war finally came to its inevitable conclusion. What I experienced just before that happened can’t be explained in a simple story, either. “She was depressed, among other things. It was easier watching her die than it was watching her live.”

  I expect to be faced with disgust and judgment. After all, how could I expect someone like Taylor, someone who actually loves her parents, to understand what I felt about mine?

  But instead of judgment, I watch as she furrows her brow.. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  She might just be the first person who’s ever said that to me.

  “Does it?”

  She glances at me, her expression distant but thoughtful. “You recognized something in Mom, didn’t you?” she asks. “Something that you saw in your own mother.”

  I feel my legs bend at the knees, and somehow, against my better judgment, I find myself sitting on the edge of her bed. She doesn’t flinch away from me. She just watches me with a weary sense of curiosity.

  “Fiona was ready to go, Taylor. She’s been ready for some time now. I think the bullet gave her permission to say something she’d been waiting many months to say.”

  Her bottom lip starts to tremble. “It’s weird—I keep digging up all these old memories that I didn’t even realize I had. It’s almost like…human nature’s way of trying to distract me from the fact that there won’t be any new memories.” She trips over the last few words, her face dropping into her palm. “Fuck me. I can’t seem to stop crying.”

  “Then cry,” I tell her. “Cry until you run out of tears.”

  “You should probably leave then,” she says. “I doubt you want to see me ugly cry.”

  “Too late for that.”

  She snorts through her tears. “Asshole.”

  I laugh for just a moment before I catch myself and kill it dead. Truth be told, I should get the fuck out of here immediately. Alarm bells are going off at the back of my head.

  But they’re easier to ignore in the face of those tear-stained hazel eyes.

  “Tell me about her,” I murmur.

  “Mom.” She sighs, smiling through her grief. “Where to start? I have so many things to choose from.”

  “Tell me the first one that pops into your head.”

  She starts talking immediately, as though the reservoir of memories stored in her head has just been waiting for an excuse to erupt. “When I was about eight, I got pneumonia. It was pretty bad, and I had to be hospitalized for a week. After I was released, I was so weak that I had to stay on bed rest, mostly. So Mom decided that she would start a wall mural for me.” She smiles a bit wider. “She’d bring in new paint cans every morning, and by nightfall, there was a new story sprawled across one part of my wall. She used to sing when she painted. Badly, but it made me laugh. She used to make up stories, too. Some of them even got up there on the mural. I came to love those bed-ridden days. After Dad went off to work and Celine went off to school, it was just Mom and me—making up stories she could paint, singing out of tune together, living off junk food and laughter.” Her eyes connect with mine. “I have this…feeling,” she says, her voice suddenly soft as her face falls. “This feeling like there’s nothing holding me together anymore. That if I fall—there’ll be nothing left to catch me.”

  Words leap out of my throat before I can consider just how fucking stupid they are.

  “I’ll catch you, tigrionok.”