Tears erupted from Aubrey, too, and she leaned down to hug her fiercely. “I love you, too, Em. I’m so glad you’re back.”
Emma suddenly became aware of something in her left hand. She tightened her fist around it, exploring the warm metal shape. Instantly, she knew what it was and, of course, how it had gotten there.
Jacob saw it, too, and inhaled sharply. “What the—?”
Slowly, she turned her fist up for Aubrey to see.
Aubrey frowned as Emma opened her fingers. Lizzy’s peace-symbol necklace spilled out onto the white sheets. “Oh. My—”
“Is that—?” Jacob stammered to a stop.
They stared at it, disbelievingly for a long, long beat.
“How in the world—?”
“No freaking way,” he finished.
Aubrey lifted up the necklace by two fingers. The precious green stone in the middle sparkled in the sunlight pouring in the window.
Emma whispered, “Lizzy sends…her…love.”
*
Nine months later…
Aubrey poured twoglasses of very nice Chardonnay and slid one across the marble island countertop to Emma. “Honestly, Emma,” she said, “a visit to a shrink would be way cheaper than a random trip to Scotland.”
Emma tapped her glass against Aubrey’s. First, that likely wasn’t altogether accurate, and second, there would be no talking her out of this. She had her ticket and her suitcase packed. “I don’t need a shrink, and I’ve made up my mind. I’m going.”
“This obsession you have with Scotland is—”
“Weird. Go on. Say it.”
“I’m just worried about you, Em. You’re just getting back on track at work again. And your leg… I’m worried about you going all alone. What if you fall? What if—”
“I’m going to be fine. You have to stop worrying about me.” With five months of occupational therapy, and another few for the rehab for her leg behind her now, she’d put away the cane she’d used throughout the last nine months. She finally felt strong again. Herself again.
Almost.
“If you’re just dying for a trip,” Aubrey went on, “there are closer places to take a vacation and far nicer weather than freezing cold Scotland in the spring. We could go to the beach. Florida, for instance. I’ve seen some great rentals down at a place called Rosemary Beach, and we could—”
“I hate the beach.”
“No one hates the beach. That’s a myth.”
With the still-fading seven-inch scar wrapping around her lower leg, a bathing suit was definitely out of the question this year. Maybe forever. “I do. And that’s not the point.”
“Then let me come with you to Scotland. I’ll buy the ticket. You don’t even have to—”
Emma shook her head. “I have to do this alone.”
She had to prove to herself that what had happened reallyhadhappened. She remembered all of it, but not the way one might recall a dream. Dreams faded, slipped away. Her time with him was vivid. Alive. She’d found the Montrose estate online, saw pictures of the moor he’d taken her to. She could still almost smell the sweet heather there. If she could just see it, prove it to herself, then, she told herself that would be enough. She would never get Connor back, but she wouldn’t completely lose him, either. Then maybe she could move on. She’d shared very little of what she’d been through in the in-between with anyone for lots of reasons. But mostly because, even to her, it sounded crazy. Impossible. And yet…
Emma had looked for him everywhere, hoping. On rooftops, in shadows, in her dreams. But he was nowhere to be found. She hadn’t spoken his name. Not once. Perhaps because saying his name out loud would prove she’d crossed over some threshold of crazy. She didn’t want Aubrey to look at her that way or say her head injury was to blame. While Emma had struggled through some short-term memory issues, her memory of what had happened in the in-between was crystal clear.
In the hospital, she’d asked a nurse named Cordell if his patients had ever had strange experiences while in comas. He’d admitted he’d had many patients who had, and he’d told her stories that sounded ridiculously plausible to Emma now, though each and every story had been met with some sort of patronizing doubt from loved ones. Cordell said he, for one, believed those stories. He’d heard too many to discredit them with a shrug and a wink. When he’d asked if Emma had experienced something, she’d just nodded. But she didn’t want to share about Connor or Violet or about Enoch or Henry or Marguerite. It felt too personal. Too raw. And she could barely think about any of them without crying.
Picking up Winston, who was winding himself around her ankles, she snuggled his furry neck, draping him over her shoulder as he purred. He’d been her comfort in the months she’d been recuperating. He was the only one in the room who could confirm Connor existed. Emma comforted herself now by knowing that Connor must have finally reached his goal. He was, no doubt, finally sitting on his Council and probably happy as a clam now that he’d gotten her and Violet out of his system.
