Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (21 page)

The gold halo winks at me, gathering the light from the room, shining like my favorite wishing star. I’m glad the Prince didn’t take it from me. Next to it, the dark halo reflects its surroundings: the golden halo, Mom’s Bible, the afternoon colors of my room. It’s absolutely ordinary next to Canaan’s.

Unable to stand the chafing a second longer, I kick out of my shorts and strip off my shirt. Sand and salt fall like rain, covering my sheets. I stand and ball all of it up—my sheets and blanket, my dirty clothes—before sliding into my zebra-print bathrobe and carrying my dirty things to the laundry room.

My bare feet are quiet on the carpet, the house silent. I stick my head into Dad’s room but it’s empty. I find a note from him on the kitchen counter.

Ran to the office. Dinner tonight. We need to talk.

He’s a man of many words, my dad. I lean into the island fingering the note. I’m glad he’s working. That’s a good thing, but I think again about the image in the desert. I try to conjure the picture in my mind, the way Dad’s truck was tangled in the foliage, the way his head gushed blood. Maybe the Prince did more than call for help. Maybe his minion sped Dad’s healing?

But that question opens the door to a million more equally uncomfortable questions, and I don’t want to feel any more indebted to the Prince than I already do. I shove away from both the counter and the questions, nearly sprinting to the bathroom across the hall. My little stereo is there on the counter and I crank it up, desperate to get lost in the noise, hoping it will drown the questions that feel like they weigh more than I do.

The water is hot, but not nearly hot enough to burn away the fear chewing at my stomach. With every drop of water I feel the questions I don’t want to answer. I see Jake’s face as he asks them, imagine Canaan’s brows drawn together in consternation as I struggle to explain just why I have the Prince’s halo.

And Dad obviously has his own questions. It’s not unexpected. I mean, I did leave town without letting him know. I did drive Slugger to the coast when my little Bug isn’t allowed out of Stratus.

But it’s more than that. Canaan told Dad stuff. I just hope he answered all the hard questions, because I’m still learning. And if I’m honest, today I have more questions than I’ve had in a long time.

I scrub ferociously at my head, clawing at the grit that refuses to release my hair. I shampoo three, four, five times, but it’s still not enough. I scrub my skin until it’s raw and the poor loofah is left in tatters, but I still smell of rotten eggs. When I
climb from the shower I’ve decided one thing: it’s not possible to wash Danakil away.

And that’s unsettling.

I wrap a towel around my body, the ease I woke with gone. It washed away much more quickly than the grime, and I can’t help but wonder which halo would bring it back. The one that thaws me, eases my fear? Or the one that promises to hide it from my eyes?

And then I see my phone. It’s on the counter just inside the kitchen door. I thought I left it in the car at Bellwether.

Geeze, Bellwether!

Marco!

Kaylee!

I snatch up my phone and unlock it. There, waiting for me, are seventeen missed calls, one voice mail, and one text message. Fifteen of the missed calls are from my dad. Two are from Miss Macy, missed this morning. The text is from Kaylee.

S
LUGGER
’
S OUT FRONT
. M
ARCO
’
S
WITH ME
. Y
OUR DAD CALLED MY PHONE LAST NIGHT LOOKING FOR YOU
. I
TOLD HIM WE DROVE TO THE BEACH, WHICH IS ABSOLU&H𠄚TELY TRUE SO DON
’
T YOU DARE LET HIM CALL ME
A
LIAR WHEN YOU
CONFESS
ALL
.
CALL ME
WHEN
YOU
CAN
.

I dial my voice mail and hear the message from my very irate, very concerned father. I could kick myself for not leaving a note, not texting. I hate worrying him, and I have no idea how I’m going to answer the kinds of questions he’s likely to have about where I’ve been and what I was doing. After his conversation with Canaan, there’s no way Kaylee’s beach story will be adequate.

I exit the message screen and see the date on my phone. It’s Sunday. Almost two days have passed since Kaylee and I drove to Bellwether, but I’m unclear just how that breaks down. How long was I actually in Danakil? How long have I been sleeping? Things that are going to matter when my dad launches into his inquisition.

The clock says it’s nearly four, which means I have at least an hour and a half before Dad walks through the door. I stare out the kitchen windows and watch the shadows shift on the gravel drive. It’s been a long time since I’ve been nervous to see Jake.

Excited? Yes. Anxious? All the time. But nervous? Not since his first week in Stratus.

But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve broken something that can’t be repaired. And yet . . . it’s Jake. My Jake.

The Jake who promised me forever.

The same Jake the Prince promised me if only I’d take his crown. If I’d just try it. How much harm is there in trying, right?

My stomach rolls and I turn away from the shadows. Back in my room I realize just how badly I need to do laundry. The lid of my hamper will no longer close, but having a gazillion outfits from my modeling days pays off. Five minutes later I’ve slipped into a pair of yoga pants—from an overly ambitious online campaign for a dot-com store that has now gone belly-up. Mom’s necklace rests against my chest, still damp from the shower. Over it, I throw a stretchy polo in pale green. I look like I’ve just come from the gym, but it could be worse. I’m too lazy to grab socks, so I just slide my feet into my sneakers. I grab the dark halo off my nightstand, and before I can fixate on the thing anymore, I grab a purse that’s hung on the post of my bed for years—something very Rastafarian—unzip it, and drop the halo inside.

I even zip the purse. When I turn to grab Canaan’s halo, I can’t help but feel slightly victorious. I slide it on my wrist and that same familiar heat washes over me. It feels warmer than it’s felt in some time, and suddenly the world doesn’t seem so confusing.

I didn’t accept the Prince’s gift. I ended up with it. I’ll just give it to Canaan and be done with the stupid thing. I don’t know what that means for Jake and me—I have no idea—but the answer can’& otherowpD;t be anything I received in the desert.

The Prince can’t make me promises. He doesn’t have that right.

With the purse slung over my shoulder and the golden halo on my wrist, I walk out the door and across the grassy field that separates my house from Jake’s. Halfway there it hits me. It really hits me.

Jake’s home. He’s home. And he’s safe.
The excitement returns and my pace quickens. But when I burst through the door of the old Miller place, I stop.

Jake’s there on the couch, but he’s not alone. A stranger companion I could not have imagined. Ali’s mom is with him. Tears sparkle in her chocolate-brown eyes, the only feature she shared with Ali. And even that was coincidence, not genetics. Ali was adopted.

“Serena?”

“Elle!” She jumps off the couch and embraces me. Taller than my five foot six, she spent her twenties as a runway model. Her skin is several shades darker than her chocolate eyes, and her limbs are long and lean. Ali said she took up running after her modeling days, and it shows. More so now than when I saw her at the funeral. “You look lovely. It’s been ages.” Her British
accent brings back a flood of memories. Ali tiptoeing on the planter boxes outside the school, mimicking her mother on the runway. Ali trying to convince her mother via e-mail that just because there are two
L
s in the British form of the word
traveled
, that doesn’t make it more correct than the American spelling, which is perfectly satisfied with just one.

Serena’s embrace quivers and then it shakes with the sobs wracking her body. I wrap my arms around her and let her cry. I don’t know what’s wrong, but it could be anything really. She could have found something of Ali’s, or lost something of Ali’s. Today could have been the anniversary of some special or even arbitrary event that they celebrated as a family. Any of those things could send a grieving mother into tears, and understandably so. I still have my days where I miss Ali so much it makes me ill, and I didn’t raise her.

It’s only after she’s cried herself out that I guide her back to the couch and sit down next to her. Jake’s eyes follow me all the way, and as I meet his gaze I realize how much there is to say. Not just about Danakil, but about the missing engagement ring and Damien’s dagger in the chest. And now that Serena’s here, I think of Ali’s journal and the quote she’d penned there:
Men
loved
darkness
rather
than
light, because their deeds were evil.
And then I remember the picture of the tattoo and Jake’s trip to the Evil Deeds Tattoo Parlor in Portland, and I realize I still don’t know what he found there.

For now, the words will have to remain unsaid.

“What’s happened, Serena?”

“Forgive me for popping in like this. I’ve actually been handling this all quite well, but seeing you . . .”

That’s all she gets out before the tears start again. I grab a
wad of tissues out of the box on the table and press them into her hand.

“Serena,” Jake says, a hand to her shoulder, “would you like me to . . .”

“Yes, won’t you? I can’t say it again.” She stands and stumbles past me, through the kitchen and down the hall. I call after her, but a second later I hear a door slam and the sound of water running.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Her husband passed away.”

“Manny?” I ask, stunned. Emmanuel Beni is—or was—a family court judge in Portland. He was successfully working his way up the justice system last I heard, but admittedly that was some time ago. “How?”

“Heart attack,” Jake says. “She came home and found him on the floor of his office. A couple weeks ago now, I guess.”

“Wow.”

“Did you know him?”

“No, not really. Spoke to him a couple times at the school and then at the funeral, of course. But Ali was an only child. Adopted, obviously. Losing both of them so close together has to be awful for Serena.” I feel thin, stretched. With all the other emotions I carried over here, the weight of this news feels that much heavier. “How did she end up
here
?”

“She came to see you, but when no one answered your door, she tried here. She didn’t want to leave these on your doorstep.” Jake slides a stack of paper across the table. It’s alligator-clipped together, colored Post-it notes jutting from the sides.

“What is it?” I ask, scanning the top page.

“Correspondence,” Jake says, “between Serena and the law
firm that handled Ali’s adoption.” He’s speaking slowly. It’s weird.

“Why does she want me to have it?”

“I don’t know, but read the second paragraph on that one,” Jake says.

Thank you for stopping by the office. I’m sorry I missed you. Your paperwork is in process as we speak, but I’ve come upon an extraordinary situation that could expedite your adoption. Clients of mine, a husband and wife, had hired a surrogate to carry their baby. This weekend they were killed in a car accident. Their will indicates that their only living relative should take custody of the child should anything befall them, but the relative patently refuses. What makes the situation more desperate is that the surrogate is to give birth any day. If you would like to pursue this adoption, I’m nearly certain we can make this happen.

I read it quickly, silently, and then I turn my eyes back to& otherowpD; Jake. He takes the packet from me, removes the Post-it notes lining the top of the page, and slides it back across the table.

“Look at the stationery,” he says.

The Law Firm of Madison and Kline. Below the block-style logo is a list of attorneys. The first name on the list is Henry J. Madison, Senior Partner.

Henry.

Again.

I haven’t seen him since the warehouse, but he’s everywhere. Why does that old man keep squirming into my life? Into the lives of everyone I love?

“We were entirely unaware that we were dealing with traffickers,” Serena says, entering the room, rounding the couch, her steps steady now. “Not for some time. Madison and Kline, you see, was a firm my husband was familiar with in his proceedings. They came with the highest recommendations. We should have spotted it before, of course, but it wasn’t until after Ali had been placed with us that we understood with whom we had become involved.”

I sit up a little straighter. “I don’t understand . . .”

“She was sick. Very, very sick. The birth mother was by no means a surrogate. She was penniless, an addict in a hopeless situation. She agreed to sell her baby for a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars?” I ask. I’m not even sure what mortifies me more. That someone thought Ali was worth so little or that she was purchased at all.

Serena’s face is grim. “We paid Madison and Kline over $300,000 for the adoption. When Manny threatened to turn them over to the authorities, they produced more than enough documentation to cast a shadow on any ignorance we could have claimed.” She nods at the paperwork. “That’s what you have there.”