Page 130 of After We Fall

As we walk down the hallway to the front of the house, we pass by the wall of family photos.

Luke stops and points to one of my mother and me. “Hey, this one’s new.”

I smile. “I hung it yesterday.”

Of the entire lot of ruined, double-exposure pictures from the day my mother and I shared at the beach, the best picture is a close-up of our faces. A selfie taken before selfies were all the rage. It was a spontaneous shot my mother took.

I couldn’t believe she was going to use one of our precious twenty-four pictures on a shot that might or might not turn out well. But looking back, I realize it was so very much my mother. She saw a moment, drew me close, and risked taking that shot. It came out perfectly. Or almost perfectly. Our faces are at a diagonal just a touch. What is truly exquisite about this double-exposure photo is that the flower shot taken from the week before layers our faces in a delicate border, only overlapping in a few spots.

Running my finger down the edge of the black frame, I say, “It’s my favorite.”

“Do you want your coat?” he asks as I open the front door.

“No. I’m not going to be that long.” I slip my phone into the pocket of my tunic.

“Did you hear from Jason?”

“Not yet.”

“You sent him an olive branch. He’ll respond at some point after he’s licked his wounds a little longer.”

I hadn’t heard from him in so long, I wrote him a letter just telling him what he has meant to me. Not an apology for breaking his heart. But maybe some closure for both of us. And an open door to call when he’s ready.

Luke and I walk hand in hand and cross west of the fence to the Holcombe property. No wind today and the sun shines brightly, but there’s still a bite in the air.

About twenty feet from the door to the chapel, I stop. “Shoot. I left the measuring tape.”

“I’ll go get it.”

“No, no. You go on.” I lift up on my toes and touch my lips to his. “It’s a little chillier out here than I realized. I’ll grab my coat too.”

Luke splits off to meet up with Harlan, and I head back to the house. After rummaging through a kitchen drawer, I find a small measuring tape. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my AirPods. I put them in my ears and turn on some soft piano music. Once at the door, I put on my trench coat, transfer my phone and measuring tape to one of its pockets, and head back to the chapel.

As I cross the field, my boots eat up the crunchy grass. A shot fires in the distance. I use my hand as a visor to block out the sun and squint. About half a football field away stand two men. Though I can’t see their faces, one is a little more handsome than the other.

After I pull the unlocked door of the chapel open, I step inside the small room and pause, allowing my eyes time to adjust. Sunlight sifts through the windowpanes and angles toward the center aisle. Dust particles catch the light, floating to the ground on a shimmer. I walk toward the stage with delicate music in my ears and a smile on my lips and wonder if someday Luke will stand at the end of this short walk waiting for me to join him.

With the measuring tape and my phone, I make note of the square footage of the small stage. I stand on the far edge of the room, facing the eastern windows, and record my last number into the phone, the final notes of a song playing through my AirPods.

“Where is Finley?” a voice booms from behind me.

I spin around and stare at a seething Marcus. No. I stare down the barrel of a handgun about ten feet from me, attached to the jittery hands of a seething Marcus.

My heart pounds, and I gulp down a breath.

“I said, where is she?” Glassy eyes. Stringy hair. Filthy clothes. Marcus’s uniform of choice. But this time a hint of eerie craze laces his expression and spikes fear through my core.

I hold out a hand. “Marcus, will you please put the gun down and we can talk about this?”

“If you don’t tell me where she is, there isn’t going to be anything to talk about.” He points the gun to the ceiling, fires, and debris falls between us.

I jump, the loud blast from the shot reverberating through my head, rivaling any migraine I’ve ever experienced. Bile crawls up my throat, and I swallow it down. He didn’t even hesitate to pull the trigger.

“I’m not messin’ with you. Where’s Finley? I’ve been looking for her for days. Her phone’s disconnected. She stole all my money and left.” Each statement he makes is filled with expletives, and his gun wobbles in my direction. Then he shoots again—this time the bullet splits the wood of a pew just two rows from me.

I jump back, my heart pounding out of my chest. He’s going to kill me.

My phone rings, and I almost come out of my skin.