Page 20 of The Golden Hour
I’m not afraid anymore. You gave me a home. That’s all I ever wanted, and nothing—no one—can take that away from me.
Love,
Calli
12
I almost don’t make it. At least a hundred times, I nearly turn the car around on the sixteen-plus-hour drive to Los Angeles.
When I wrote the letter for Molly, I told the truth at the time—I wasn’t afraid. Too bad bravery isn’t a switch you can flip and lock in place. Instead, it’s rolling waves. Courage lives at the foamy peaks; fear in every trough.
I now understand what people talk about when they describe walking toward clear and present danger. The battle of the mind over growing pulses of fear. The urgency in the body to run the other way, toward safety, and the effects of sustained adrenaline.
But I make it. A menial victory to anyone else is a monumental one for me.
I’m not running anymore.
It’s late, after nine, by the time I arrive at Police Headquarters in downtown L.A.
I find a spot in the parking lot and turn off the car. This is it. My ass and legs are numb, and my mouth tastes like metal and stale coffee. A quick glance in the visor mirror shows my bloodshot eyes framed by half-moon shadows, and pale—too pale—skin. Even my lips are white. I look weak. Anemic.
Flipping up the visor, I stare at the dauntingly modern building ahead, and everything slams into me and it’s all suddenly real. Every survival instinct I have screams at me to stop what I’m doing. Turn on the car and get the hell out of here.
My heart pounds a staccato rhythm in my ears as I open the car door and get out. Another small victory of mind over matter.
I can do this.
I am brave.
I will prove them all wrong.
The asphalt beneath my sneakers radiates heat as I walk toward the building. Winter has a different definition in Southern California, and longing for the misty cold of Solstice Bay momentarily grips me.
I wonder if I’ll ever see the town—the only place that ever felt like home—again. Or have morning coffee with Molly again. Or sit on the bench overlooking the cove and doodle in my sketchbook or read a book.
Life was simpler two days ago.
I approach the wall of glass, angling for the doors. A woman is leaving, talking rapidly into her cell phone. Business attire and a briefcase. Lawyer. Head down, I slip past her into the lobby.
As I approach the main counter, the seated officer looks up. “Can I help you?”
His sharp gaze scans my face, a frown deepening the lines on his forehead. He’s older—mid-fifties—which means he remembers well the media storm after my suspected death. He knows my face, and he’s struggling to comprehend why I look like a dead girl.
“Yes.” My voice comes out as a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. “Yes. I need to speak with someone about a missing person.”
His gaze veers to a computer screen. “What’s the name?”
The hilarity of the moment hits me, and I almost laugh. “It’s me, actually. I’m the missing person. Callisto Avellino.”
The name in my mouth feels displaced, like it belongs to someone else. And it does. It belongs to the person I used to be. The person I killed so she could be free of the life that was smothering her.
I haven’t been her—Callisto—for years. Until yesterday.
Until right now.
Oddly, it feels good. Powerful. Like I’m reclaiming a part of myself I sacrificed against my will.
Recognition slowly dawns on the officer’s face, draining the color from his ruddy complexion. Shooting to his feet, he lifts a beseeching hand. “Please, stay right there.”
