Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel) (26 page)

“And I’m going to keep this little guy,” Becky says, ruffling the boy’s hair. “I’ll be back in the morning so the guys can go to work.”

The gesture is overwhelming. “I could stay with you, Dad.”

“Not a chance,” he says. “I owe her. She sat lots of hours in hospitals for me. It’s the least I can do.”

“Still . . .”&liinow

“And,” Dad says, standing, moving closer, “from what Canaan says, you’ve got some dreaming to do.” His voice is quiet, his look far too knowing. It’s weird having Dad in on everything. And kind of nice. “Get her home, kid. Truck’s ’round back.”

Dad punches Jake in the shoulder as we pass. I think it’s supposed to be an attempt at camaraderie, but Jake rolls his shoulder as we walk out the door. I’m a good girlfriend, so I pretend not to notice.

Plus, I just need to get out of here. The waiting room, the hallway, the space between the two sliding doors—it’s all coated with fear. I pinch my eyes shut and slide my hand into Jake’s. I can let him lead me to the truck, but it doesn’t really matter, the fear’s still here. It wraps around my feet and I stumble.

Jake slips his arm around my waist and pulls me through a flowered archway that leads to the hospital’s garden walk. Through a pair of cypress trees, the sun is nothing but a bloodred blot on the horizon, the misty blue of night rising above it. It’s almost eight o’clock.

“You ready to dream?” Jake asks. His voice is quiet. I don’t think he expects me to say yes. Which is good, because I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve had just about as much tragedy as I can stand.

“No,” I sat’s up?

26

Brielle

I
haven’t seen Canaan since we returned from Danakil, haven’t heard his voice since he ushered my dad away for a talk, but Jake assures me he’s around. The warmth of the old Miller place confirms it.

I stand in the doorway to Canaan’s room wearing a pair of sweats, cut off just above the knee, and a tank top that says
Keep
Portland
Weird
. The golden halo’s on my wrist, stilling the spasms in my gut, its heat spreading through my body, making me feel almost normal. There’s a light switch just inside the door. I curl my index finger around it and tug the room into darkness. The dove over Canaan’s bed seems to glow, the ghostly white of its wings contrasting like a great white moon against an inky sky. The window looks like the cover of a space opera, stars smeared across the horizon, caught in the trees, hanging from the rain gutter.

Star soup.

I’m going to intentionally close my eyes in a minute. In fact, I’m near-asking for a nightmare, but if it weren’t for that—if it weren’t for the angelic battle raging overhead—if it weren’t for the girls fighting for their lives at the hospital just across town,
tonight could have been spectacular. A blanket spread across the grass, a midnight picnic, dancing with Jake and his two left feet under an overfed moon . . .

Before I know it I’ve crossed to the window, my fingers resting lightly on the sill. I’m wishing for that. For a little bit of the sublimely normal.

“I’m here. Let the dreams beginI’m not sure ">
I cross the room and pull her into a hug. “You got away, Kay. You called for help.”

“I slapped Damien too.”

We laugh.

“Thank you for coming, Kay. My dad would freak if he heard I spent the night alone with Jake.”

She kicks off her shoes and climbs up on the bed. “I like helping. Anything I can do, you know? Did you see my face? Jake vanished my bruises, and he didn’t even need a wand.”

“Kind of amazing, isn’t he?”

Jake’s there then, standing next to me and pushing a warm cup into my hand. Everything’s warm here, so unlike the hospital, where fear breeds in the hallways. I raise the cup to my lips, but the robust smell I was expecting is replaced by something flowery. I think immediately of Miss Macy. I feel guilty for being here, in the peace and warmth, when she and the girls are surrounded by so much pain.

“Tea,” Jake says.

“Rebelling against tradition?”

“Only thing here that’s decaffeinated.”

I take a sip, but mostly to show him I’m thankful. The truth
is I
am
ready now. Not to be terrified. But to get this over with. To find out what happened to Mom, to understand why her disappearance matters now. To do anything that feels like fighting. Because I am so tired of being helpless.

The change in my demeanor isn’t lost on me. I’m greatly affected by the lack of fear here, by the peace, by the hope. I set the mug on Canaan’s side table and climb up next to Kay. Jake grabs a fleece blanket from the dresser and lays it gently on my legs, unfolding it until I’m all but covered. The halo seems heavier all of a sudden, pressing against my wrist.

“Would you like to do the honors?” I ask, tugging my arm free of the fleece. Jake pulls the halo off and sets it on my stomach as it unravels. The pressure against my gut reminds me of my conversation with Marco, of the halo unraveling against my body while we spoke, of my inability to hide it from him.

It wanted to be found, I think. Wanted Marco to see it, to understand. And as Jake lifts the halo from my stomach and slides it beneath Canaan’s pillow, I remember the way the halo flamed against my wrist at Olivia’s touch. I remember her eyes wide with surprise and something else: need. And as my eyes close, I wonder why the halo never warned me about Damien. Why didn’t it flash red-hot when he was near?

“Sleep tight,” Kaylee whispers.

Colors swirl on my eyelids now. Stains of blue and purple seep into my consciousness, orange and red chasing after them. Gray and black fall like hail through the colors, shredd$" class="tx" aid="𠄚ing them, stripping them away, only to be replaced by the green of dew-kissed grass. And then a flash of white, like crisp linen sheets. It ripples and snaps taut before the blue and purple rise again through the cotton.

I want nothing more than to be lost in them. To wade into this ocean of heavenly lights and tones. But as expected, Olivia swims into my thoughts. Just before the colors swallow me whole, I have a tiny, fleeting notion.

Maybe the halo wasn’t warning me about Olivia. Maybe the halo wanted something else. Maybe it wanted to be found.

But I’m drowning in the beauty of color now. Olivia grows smaller and smaller, drifting away on rainbow waves. And then, abruptly, the colors are pushed to the corner of my mind and Olivia’s desperate eyes stare back into mine.

Only I’m not me.

I’m too small to be me. Too petite. Too bruised.

In my hand is a pencil, tapping the open journal resting on a knee that’s been crossed over the other. From beneath my striped sweater a bruise the color of eggplant sneaks, covering the inside of my wrist and the pad beneath my thumb.

I’m Ali.

We sit perfectly still, Ali and I, her pencil tapping out a steady rhythm. Back at the Miller place, lying in Canaan’s bed, I feel my breath hitch.

I don’t think I can do this. I want to wake up. To wake up!

But a hand wraps mine. Strong and warm. “I’m here, Elle. Breathe.”

And then another hand rests softly on my forehead. Cooler. Smaller.

I’m not alone.

Jake presses his lips to my cheek, to the soft spot beneath my ear.

“Good,” he says. “Better. You can do this. It’s just a dream.”

It’s a weird thing being entirely aware of two places, but it’s
better. It’s easier with them here. I force myself to take another huge breath.

“What do you see?” Jake says.

“Olivia,” I breathe. Her name sounds so eloquent in my head, so easy to say, but it comes out garbled and odd. Jake doesn’t seem to notice.

“Okay, how old is she?” He’s asking because my dreams seem to come out of sequence. Her age helps us place them, helps us piece the story together. But I’ve not had this dream before.

Through Ali’s eyes I stare into Olivia’s face. She looks at Ali a moment longer and then turns toward the window on her right. It spans the whole wall, as does the window behind her desk. Olivia seems to be contemplating something, her red lips recently glossed, her hair parted to the side and pulled into a &heD1Alow, sleek bun. Rain run downs the glass, blurring the skyline beyond, but I recognize it: the pink US Bancorp Tower, the Koin Center with its orange brick and blue crown, the cables of the aerial tram running through it all.

Ali’s at Olivia’s office in downtown Portland. She must be. She continues to study the woman before her. The expensive blouse, the carefully rolled sleeves, and three silver scars marking Olivia’s forearm.

Jake’s voice invades the dream once again. “Elle, how old is Olivia?”

I want to answer him, but I’m overwhelmed by the nerves running through Ali. She’s obviously waiting for Olivia to speak, to answer some question I’ve missed. She lifts her journal and pencil, switches her legs, slides her pencil behind her ear, and all the while she’s quoting Hamlet under her breath.

“Where’s your father?”

“At home, my lord.”

“Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house.”

The dialogue brings with it a bittersweet kind of wistfulness. It’s Hamlet and Ophelia. When Marco performed Hamlet, she ran these lines with him over and over. Before tech week even hit, she could quote the iconic play from the guard’s entrance to Fortinbras’ exit. But she could never keep a straight face when Marco exclaimed, “Get thee to a nunnery.” It sent her into hysterics. And even now, with all the anxiety running through her tiny body, her left cheek lifts as she whispers the line.

“She’s smiling,” Kay says. I hear Kay. She’s there. Here. Somewhere in the back of my mind. “At least you’re smiling.”

I try to squeeze their hands, grateful that I’m not alone, but I can’t tell if I’ve succeeded. Olivia turns back to Ali, her gaze vacant. Jake and Kaylee slip away.

“I wish I could help you. I really do. But Henry Madison is no longer involved with the Ingenui Foundation.”

“I’m not interested in Ingenui, Ms. Holt. Not in the slightest. But it took quite a bit of research for me to connect the Henry Madison of Madison and Kline to the H. D. Madison who founded Ingenui. Can you put me in contact with him? If not, I’d be glad to speak to anyone who worked at Madison and Kline.”

Olivia’s face is all business, and I can tell by the set of her jaw that she’s already decided. She’s not going to help. “I’m sorry, dear . . .”

“He handled my adoption,” Ali says, her voice desperate, “and I know he didn’t use the proper channels. It wasn’t legal, Ms. Holt.”

Olivia stands and runs crimson-tipped fingers over her
designer skirt. “I’d be happy to take your information, and if anything—”

Ali stands too, the journal falling to the ground, her petite frame determined. She grabs something from her back pocket and drops it on the desk. It’s a stack of paper, rolled and held together by a green alligator clip. The stationery on the top sheet is identical to the correspondence Serena handed me this morning. There are no Post-it notes on this stack, but at first glance that seems to be the only difference.

“What is this?” Olivia asks, her voice edged with razors.

“Research,” Ali says, watching as Olivia flips through the stack slowly. “Look, I don’t care about the shady stuff. I love my parents, and from what I’ve read”—Ali nods at the rumpled stack—“I grew up in a much better home than my birth mom could have given me. But I need to know my medical history. It’s important, Ms. Holt. You can burn the rest of the information for all I care, but I’m pregnant.”

The room tilts and I can feel Ali’s stomach turn. She sits, the chair not nearly as soft as it was a moment before.

“Elle, you there? Talk to me.” It’s Jake. He strokes my face and my neck, his presence comforting, but I’m stuck in Olivia’s office, stuck in Ali’s head, and my stomach is threatening to empty.

“Miss Beni?” Olivia says, rounding the desk. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely concerned for Ali or repulsed by the possibility of her vomiting on the expensive rug covering the office floor.

“I’m fine,” Ali says, clenching the arm of the chair. “I’ve just . . . That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. I haven’t even told the father yet.” Ali stares into Olivia’s caramel eyes, and I swear I see something break.

“Congratulations,” she says, her voice soft. Softer than I’ve ever heard it. It’s weird, but I think she means it.

Ali’s not convinced. “Whatever. I know what I look like to you. Some stupid knocked-up kid.” She shoves her sleeves above her elbows, showing Olivia the bruises marking her arms.

Olivia frowns. “What happened?” she asks, running a cold finger over Ali’s arm. I feel the cold deep in my bones and I shiver. “Who did this?”

“No one did this,” Ali says. “I’m sick, and anything you can find on my medical history would really help. I’m not going to press charges. I don’t plan to expose anything, but if I’m carrying anything other than anemia, I need to know. The doctors need to know.”

Olivia’s battling something. I can see it in the way her eyes flit over Ali, in the way her finger lingers over the purple bruises. She tries to stand but her heel catches the corner of Ali’s journal. She picks it up and tilts her head at the open page. I can feel the words tumbling around in Ali’s head. Apologies, explanations. Blood rushes to her face, and suddenly I’m light-headed—Ali’s light-headed.