Marnie sat up and wound her arms around her legs. She watched the first pinkening light. She thought of the little hawkling; wet, scared. She thought of her defenses—of Llewellyne’s sword; of her imaginary hatpin. Of all the times she’d backed away from people. She thought of her impulse last night, to back away from Frank. To say no. She had fought it. She would keep fighting, because she knew now what she wanted. She was not Skye, and she didn’t believe—would choose not to believe—that being with others would make her any less strong. Or any less herself.
There was no such thing as safety. But—if you dared—you could fly without it.
EPILOGUE
“The funeral is all set for tomorrow, then,” said Max on Saturday. His voice on the phone sounded as if he were ticking off items on a list. “The minister said she’d talk to you beforehand about the choice of psalms, so you can pick what you want.”
“Thanks,” said Marnie. She stood in her dorm room. “See you at dinner, then?” It would be goodbye for now; Max was heading back to New York right after Leah Slaight’s funeral.
“Yes,” said Max. A pause. “You, um, you’ve invited your friend to dinner tonight too?”
The Elf. Frank. Involuntarily Marnie smiled. “Yes. He’s driving up this afternoon. In fact, I expect him in ten minutes or so. Listen, Max, I think you’ll like him.”
“We’ll see,” said Max dryly. “Perhaps when he grows up enough not to need to advertise his individuality quite so loudly …” His voice drifted off as he remembered exactly who he was talking to. “Uh, the place I’ve chosen likes men to wear jackets …”
The smile grew on Marnie’s face. “Maybe it would be better to go somewhere else.”
To Marnie’s vast surprise, Max actually chuckled. “Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
They hung up. Marnie grabbed her sweatshirt and left the building to wait outside for Frank.
She thought of the new, cautious warmth between herself and Max. Of her plans to spend the summer in New York with him and Mrs. Shapiro. Skye would be glad, she thought.
She watched the road. In the following five minutes, six cars passed the entrance to the school, and Marnie realized that she hadn’t asked Frank what kind of car his friend had.
Jenna came outside, dressed for running. She waved at Marnie and Marnie waved back. She thought she might take up running. Jenna had offered to coach her, so long as Marnie would promise to follow her instructions exactly.
A maroon Volvo station wagon approached. It wasn’t Frank.
A chirpy yellow Volkswagen bug flew right by the entrance to the school.
Several girls walked by Marnie and said hi, a bit uneasily. Marnie said hi back. Might as well. She’d be here next year too, figuring out what she was going to do with her life. Like everyone else.
She frowned and then had to laugh at herself. It was amazing how often she needed to reassure herself that her uniqueness was not in question. She touched the top of her head, where she’d renewed her hair dye. Just in case.
Besides, she liked it.
Another car approached. Marnie tensed. She didn’t want to look up, in case it wasn’t. She did look up.
Frank was unmistakable, at the wheel of a new, impeccably maintained blue Camaro. If Marnie had been a police officer, she’d have stopped him to see if he’d stolen the vehicle. He parked, sedately, beside the building. How oddly right it felt to see him here at Halsett, in her place.
Marnie walked diffidently toward the car as Frank unfolded his long legs and got out. Just before Marnie reached him, he grabbed a sticklike object from the car and slammed the door.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
Marnie was suddenly, hideously conscious that this was the first time they’d seen each other since Leah’s death. The first time he’d seen her clean and unbattered.
They stared at each other. Frank’s eyes were more incredible than Marnie had remembered. As before, he was wearing boots, camouflage shorts, and a T-shirt, and Marnie couldn’t help noticing the neat hospital bandage on his leg. Very different from the one she’d contrived in the basement.
He was looking at her, too. She wondered if he liked what he saw. She’d been careful with her makeup; and she had all her rings on. And the necklace, of course, with the bodyguard on the other end of the electronic link. She put an awkward hand up to ruffle her hair and then pulled it down quickly.
“Nice cane,” she said.
“I liked the silver sparkles inside the lucite,” said Frank, and lifted it to show Marnie how they floated back and forth in the liquid that filled the cane. Marnie wondered if people were looking at them. She wondered how it would be to have dinner with both Frank and Max tonight.
She wondered how it would be to tell Frank about Skye.
“Wanna take a walk?” he asked. “I need to exercise, and besides, I love this thing.” He indicated the cane. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he held out his other hand for Marnie to take. His face was suddenly serious. Marnie looked at his hand, and, for a moment, she hesitated.
Skye had believed in second chances. In the reinvention of yourself. In the possibility of renewed life, renewed faith. She had written, The self you invent, the self you live by, that is the self who is important. You are who you choose to be.
Safety did not matter.
Marnie reached out and took Frank’s hand. Their palms clasped warmly. Their fingers intertwined. They began to walk.
She was not Skye. She was Marnie Skyedottir.
Marnie Hawk Skyedottir.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the first book that I wrote in an actual office—a place that I love. For the existence of this room of my own I thank my entire family, particularly my sister Miriam Rosenblatt, who told me in no uncertain terms that I needed enough space to get away from myself. If I’m still not quite sure what she was insinuating, I’m happy to have been pried away from working in a cramped corner of my living room.
Thanks are also offered to the members of my online writers’ group. To those I now know in the flesh and those I still know only in cyberspace—my gratitude for creating a safe, supportive, and very real community in which we can all share our lives and our work. An extra thank-you goes to those who read or heard me read parts of this novel in its first draft. Your thoughtful comments—yes, even the ones suggesting I rethink entire plot strands—were much appreciated once I, um, had had time to consider them fully.
I need to warmly thank my agent, Ginger Knowlton, for the luxurious fact that I never worry about anything she’s taking care of.
And finally, as ever, I must acknowledge my very considerable creative debt to my editor, Lauri Hornik. Beyond words, I am fortunate to know and work with her.
Turn the page for an excerpt from
THE
KILLER’S
COUSIN
PROLOGUE
My name, David Bernard Yaffe, will sound familiar, but you won’t remember why—at least not at first. Most people, I’ve found, do not. I’m grateful for that. It gives me some space, however brief. However certain eventually to disintegrate.
When you do remember, it won’t be my face you recall. Not that the press didn’t shoot plenty of pictures. But it’s the photograph of my parents that was famous. That’s the one that’s developing now in your mind’s eye, behind your concentrated frown.
A regular-looking couple in their early fifties. The man thick-haired, blue-eyed. Groomed. The woman’s emotions shielded by dark glasses, but her hands betraying her as they clutch the man’s coat sleeve, biting through to the arm beneath. His other hand is over hers, comforting—but the man’s attention is clearly elsewhere, ahead. Behind them, you can just see the bleak facade of the courthouse in Baltimore on a bitterly cold day.
The man is looking directly into the camera. I can read his expression, but I defy you to do so. He is practiced at concealing his thoughts, my father. He’s a lawyer. A criminal lawyer.
You’ll remember that now, too. Some of the tabloids said it was why I got off. Behind-scenes wheeling and dealing? they asked. Powerful litigator calls in favors? they hinted.
You’d like to know, I’m sure. Everyone would like to know. But I won’t lead you on. This—the story I have to tell—is not about me and it is not about that. I won’t deceive you about it, because I am at this moment no more willing to talk about Emily and what happened my senior year of high school—my first senior year—than I ever was.
No, this is about my second senior year. About Lily. Lily, cousin of a killer. My Massachusetts cousin. Lily.
I need to talk about Lily.
Nancy Werlin, Locked Inside
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