But . . . shouldn’t you stay a little longer? So you can tell them whether this is the—
It’s the place. I know it. Taylor knows it. And being there again will . . . pull me back . . . when I’m so close to letting go. I need to let go, Anna.
As much as I want to protest, I’m being selfish. Partly it’s that I don’t want her excess baggage when she goes, but I’ve also gotten used to her company. I’m going to miss her. Deo’s gone, and now Molly—
I’m sorry for getting you into all of this, but I can see things more clearly now. This is your path. With or without me, you’d have found it eventually. And you will find Deo. I promise.
With those last words, my entire head . . . no, it’s more like my entire being . . . is enveloped in music. Or maybe I dissolve into the music. It seems to be a variation on Arabesque, the song that was playing at the café the day I met with Porter, but this is beyond mere music. It’s almost beyond comprehension.
I don’t just hear the song. The music has a lock on all of my senses. I feel the notes against my skin, like a soft breeze, a warm blanket. It smells like the sharp, fresh scent of an orange when your nails first pierce the skin, like the woods after rain, like Deo’s cheap cologne. It tastes like chocolate, like an almond cookie, like a cheddar-jalape?o bagel wrapped in a napkin. Love, and joy, and sorrow are embodied in each note.
When I open my eyes, the music swirls around me, a mélange of orange, gold, and purple. Everything I see and hear—the car, Aaron, Taylor’s gentle snore, the street beyond—are transformed. Every element has its own distinct melody, and yet they are all connected. They all merge into one beautiful symphony—no, a polyphony, with so many melodies and colors that I cannot separate the threads of the tapestry. They are each whole and each part of the whole.
“You okay, Anna?”
I hear Aaron’s words as part of the music. I can see his words, touch them, taste them.
“Anna?”
I vaguely realize that the car has stopped and he’s leaning into the backseat. His eyes are concerned, bordering on alarmed.
I try to speak, but my brain and my body seem to exist on separate planes. Almost without realizing it, my hand reaches for Aaron’s face, and I touch his cheek. The light stubble prickles against my palm and adds faint, staccato notes to the harmony, pulling in the scent and color of sage.
And then it all begins to fade . . .
. . . perdendosi . . .
My senses fall back into place slowly. I can now only see and feel my hand on Aaron’s face, see and feel his hand covering my own. The surreal music and colors are gone.
I flush and pull my hand back, tucking it beneath me. “Sorry. I was . . . dreaming.”
“I’m sorry I woke you. Your eyes were . . .” He smiles and shakes his head. “Miles away. Light-years away, maybe. Must have been some dream.”
I look around. Since my surroundings are no longer painted with every shade in the rainbow, I recognize the neighborhood as the one Aaron and I saw on the map earlier. We’re on a narrow residential street with small, older houses on both sides, parked cars crowding the road even further. I detect the glow of a TV in a few windows, and one porch light is on, but everything seems eerily quiet in the wake of Molly’s strange parting gift.
“So, we’re here?”
“Yeah.” He nods to the road ahead. “The driveway is about a quarter mile beyond that last house, and then maybe another quarter mile to the house itself. Taylor?” He nudges her with his elbow and she groans, tugging her hoodie over her face. “Wake up.”
Another extended groan, and Taylor flops onto her back. She finally sits up, chugs from a bottle of water, then splashes some into her hands and rubs her face. “Okay, let’s do this.”
Aaron pulls back onto the road. Shortly after the houses thin out, we see a paved driveway. He pauses at the entrance and closes his eyes for several seconds, breathing deeply. It almost looks like he’s praying.
“I’m not picking up anything that’s a problem . . . either here or along the street. Still, someone could be there. If so, we’ll turn around and head out. It’s a dead-end road. It’s probably not the first time someone turned around in this driveway in the middle of the night. But if the coast is clear and we go check out the cabin in the back, do not—”
“Touch anything,” Taylor says, tugging on the boots she kicked off during the drive. “Even if most of my freakin’ family weren’t cops, I’ve seen enough NCIS to know that.”
“Yeah, well, if that purse is there, the cops have to be the ones to find it. Not—”
My phone vibrates. It catches me off guard, and I jump so hard that both of them know I’ve gotten a message. So much for stealth.