“I made a sketch for a new headstone for her. I know she already has one. I know I wasn’t there to choose the existing one, and that’s on me. But I thought maybe . . . if you’d let me . . .”

Dad sits back, lacing his fingers together, tapping his lips. “If I’d let you . . . ?”

He is not going to go easy on me. For some reason, this feels really good. He doesn’t treat me like delicate china anymore. That means I’ve grown stronger, right?

“I was wondering if you’d let me replace it. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll hire an artist. I’ll pay for it. And I’ll put it on top of the existing one, so nothing would be removed or disturbed.”

“Do you think she’d have wanted this?” he asks cautiously. He doesn’t take it lightly. After all, it is his late wife we are talking about. And they were crazy about one another.

“Yes.” I chip away at my nail polish. “She always thought my designing headstones was awesome. She used to show my sketches off to clients and curators. I think she’d have appreciated the tribute. No.” I frown. “I don’t think. I know. She told me she’d want me to do this for her when she passed away.”

Still, he is not giving me what I want. I think maybe I’ve found Dad’s red limit. His deceased wife.

He appears deep in thought. “I’ll need to see it first. Renn would want to approve too.”

“That’s not a problem,” I say evenly. “I’ll show you. And I’ll be open to suggestions.”

He offers me a curt nod. “That all?”

“Yes.”

He stands up. Claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Ever. You are turning out to be much stronger than I thought you were. Definitely your mother’s daughter.”

It is Wednesday, at eleven forty-five in the morning, and I want to go home.

I’m standing at the mouth of the Montgomery Street Station, by the stairway leading down to the trains.

This is a mistake. I can’t go back down there. A part of me—the one that clearly needs to be institutionalized—fears that I will walk right into the same gory scene I left behind all those years ago. The blood. The screams. The police tape. The train that stared back at me, daring me to do something.

I stumble to a nearby trash can and puke out my breakfast. I wipe my forehead, which is lined with cool sweat. A couple bypasses me. The woman narrows her eyes at me. I can hear her say, “She doesn’t look like a homeless person, but I guess there are so many of them now it’s hard to tell.”