I shiver, whether from the sudden chill in the air or the rush of memories, I can’t be sure.
Ben grabs my hand, and we slowly walk to the front. People step aside, making room—too much room—like we give off some kind of aura, a magnetic field that forces everything else away. When we reach the head of the square, I turn around. Just like last night, standing on stage in that auditorium, I feel the gaze of eyes on my skin.
Scrutinizing me as I scrutinize them.
“Thank you all for coming,” Ben says, his voice the perfect swirl of gratitude and grief. “As you all know, tonight marks one year since our Mason was taken.”
The crowd has grown fairly large by now. There are some stragglers on the outside of the circle; curious tourists, maybe, or people too uncomfortable to get too close. I recognize a few faces—old coworkers, neighbors. Mason’s day-care teacher is at the very front, tears in her eyes. Most people are holding candles or cell phones, little dots of light dancing in the air, and I watch as a young girl walks self-consciously toward the fountain and places a stuffed dinosaur on the ground like some kind of ritual sacrifice.
“We’re now going to hold a moment of silence,” Ben continues, bowing his head. “We ask that you use this time to lift Mason up in prayer. It is our hope that wherever he is, he knows he is loved, and that he’ll be brought back to us soon.”
I hear a few sniffles erupt; the strangled chokes of the sentimental ones trying to stifle their sobs. Everyone’s eyes are on the ground now, but mine stay straight ahead. I want to memorize this crowd. I want to see who stands out—an unlikely face, maybe, or a total stranger who seems out of place. I see a flash of movement in the back, something red, and as I strain to catch a glimpse, my eyes landsquarely on Detective Dozier’s, watching me from the back. His eyes burrowing into my skull like a warning.
It’s dark after the vigil is over, the center of the square overflowing with flowers and melting candles and tiny little toys that will be snatched up by the garbage collectors as soon as we leave. I’m still not ready to go home yet, not ready to face the silence of my house and another long, lonely stretch of night, so I stay in the square for a little bit longer, sitting on the wrought-iron bench overlooking the fountain.
“Isabelle?”
I twist to the side at the sound of my name, taking in the familiar face of my past. She looks mostly the same, though it’s been years since I’ve seen her, her long, ringlet curls now clipped to her shoulders, their formerly blond color now more of a natural, burnt brown.
“Hey, Kasey.”
“Oh my God,” she says, her eyes bulging at the sight of me before she recovers quickly. “How are you?”
It’s strange sometimes, seeing myself through the eyes of the people who know me. In the mirror, my transformation has been gradual—a daily withering away, like a slow starvation or a decaying body—but tothem, I can see the shock of it at once, like a swift slap to the face.
“Oh, you know.” I smile, not bothering with a real answer.
Her expression shifts again, like she’s suddenly remembered who I am, what I’ve been through. She tries one more time, tilting her head and dropping her voice to a whisper as she takes a seat beside me, her hand on my knee.
“How are you holding up?”
The gesture is unexpected, catching me off guard. I look down at her hand, then back at her face.
“As well as can be expected, I think.”
“We all miss you,” she says at last. “So much.”
I bite my cheek, trying to stifle a grimace, because I know that’s not true. I know what they all think of me.
“It’s been seven years,” I say instead, turning to face her. “I’m sure you’ve moved on.”
“God, that long?” she asks. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
“Do you want to grab a drink or something?” she asks, her voice perking up. “I was just on my way to Sky High to meet some of the crew.”
I bite my lip, remembering that restaurant everyone went to after late nights at the office. I haven’t stepped foot in that place since the last time Kasey and I were there together, atThe Grit’s annual Christmas party, only two months into my employment.
“Not tonight,” I say, smiling. “Thanks, though.”
“Okay,” she says, standing up slowly. She looks down at me, her face a mixture of pity and concern. “Let me know if you change your mind. It’s an open invitation.”
I watch as she walks away, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat. When she reaches the edge of the square, I watch as she stops, like she’s trying to decide if she should turn back around.
Finally, she does, her eyes finding mine in the dark.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. It’s okay to ask for help.”