Grave site.

James’s grave.

James was dead.

Even after three days, the reminder hit with the force to nearly double me over. When my father died, I’d had warning. He’d suffered a series of heart attacks, so I’d had time to say everything I wanted. I had never realized how important that was until now.

I’d loved James. More than that, I’d cared for him. Love was about what I felt. Caring was about James—the life I wanted for him, whether I shared it or not.

I had pictured another future for James and me, one where he’d come to accept our separation, and gone on to meet the perfect woman and become senator, and then we’d meet on the street, years later, him with a little girl holding his hand and a boy on his shoulders and I’d tell him how good it was to see him, how happy I was for him, and I would be happy. I would look at him, with everything he’d wanted from life, and I’d be so pleased that he had it.

And now there was none of that. His life—his future—gone. Because of me.

Gabriel parked where Ricky had suggested, far enough away that we could walk through the trees, in hopes few would notice us.

“I realize this is inconsiderate of me to mention, but . . . James won’t know you’re here, Olivia,” Gabriel said, studying my face before we got out. “Do you really want to go through with this? You had your goodbye. I firmly believe you did. And you did absolutely nothing to cause his death.”

“Maybe not directly, but—”

“While I realize it is wrong to speak ill of the dead, the fact remains that if he was targeted due to your association, then that happened because he would not dissociate himself from you, despite your insistence that he do so.”

I turned to gaze out the car window. “What if he was compelled to pursue me? Fae compulsion.”

“Is that what you think?”

I shrugged.

His voice softened. “There is a limit to such compulsions. If there was not, neither the Tylwyth Teg nor the Cwn Annwn would need to persuade you to speak to them. The desire and the will must be there or the compulsion doesn’t work. You did nothing wrong. If you still wish to watch the service—”

“I do.”

“We should go, then. I will ask one thing of you, though.”

“What’s that?”

“That you do not feel the need to restrain yourself. This is the funeral of someone you cared about. I don’t expect stoicism.”

I found a smile for him. “Thank you,” I said, and we got out of the car.

—

It was a hot June day, humidity creeping in, as it is wont to do in Chicago. I remembered being at a garden party with James just last summer, both of us choking in the heat, me lamenting my decision to wear makeup, which was dripping onto my white sundress. He’d said that come February, when I was trudging through three feet of snow, cheeks raw from the subzero winds, I’d be dreaming of such weather. He was right. Complaining about the weather is an official pastime in Chicago, but the truth is that I’d never consider giving up those mercurial changes. I love the crazy weather. Just as I love my city, almost as much as James did.

The city is what had brought us together, at another party. Someone had been commenting on the wind that day, howling off the lake like a wild beast, and another guest had joked that’s what you expect from the Windy City. I mentioned that Chicago got that name from its politicians, historically known for their bluster, a situation that hasn’t changed. James had chimed in, and we went off on a riff about the weather and the politicians, entertaining our fellow guests, and it was the first time I’d seen him as someone other than the son of a family friend, someone I’d paid no more mind than the furniture.

When our group had broken up to mingle, he’d steered me into a corner to talk Chicago history, which sounds like an inauspicious start to a relationship, but when James spoke about his city, there was a passion—a spark and a light and a humor—that made me say, “Wow, he’s not what I expected at all.”

Now I stood at his funeral, watching them prepare to lower his casket into the ground, as I sweated in my dress and thought about that party and looked out past the treetops at the city skyline, and I remembered him, all the best of him, because there was so much that had been good. And I cried. I cried and I cried.

Gabriel was careful that day. He stood at my shoulder, but slightly behind me, so even if I turned, I couldn’t see him or—more important—check how he was reacting to my tears. Yet he stayed close enough that I could feel him brushing against my back and hear the whisper of his breath.

Gabriel may not have been able to provide a shoulder to cry on or a warm embrace to fall into, but he did everything he could to make up for that.

The crowd was huge. Hundreds of people, from colleagues to college friends, from those who’d supported his father as senator to those who’d hoped to see James in that seat. We were a hundred yards from the grave site, too far to catch more than snatches of the service. Also too far to catch anyone’s eye, but as it was winding down, someone said, “Oh, excuse me. Didn’t see you there,” and I started to turn, but Gabriel’s hand moved to my shoulder, keeping me still.

“Mr. Walsh,” the man said. “Ms. Jones. Sorry. I didn’t know it was—”

“Yes, you did,” Gabriel said, his voice a deep rumble. “And if that phone rises another inch, I will take it from you. I will not take it gently. Nor will I return it in one piece.”