I studied the way Anna had used color to bring out the depth of the forest. She really had been a staggeringly good artist. “She always goes dark,” I said. “She always goes for red. That deep blackish red, wherever she can. Even here in the trees.”

“That ‘dried-blood’ red.” Oliver smirked. “Her signature color.”

I elbowed him, laughing. “Exactly,” I said.

I expected him to walk back to his folding table, but he stood still, and I felt his gaze on me. I turned to look at him, breathing in that enticing leathery scent he seemed to carry with him.

“You have such a good eye, Morgan,” he said. “Trust yourself a bit more.”

He did return to his worktable then, and I began mixing paint, but my mind was still on him. I thought I was sort of falling in love with him. He seemed so much older than me, and so different. Bob Dylan? Really? But where I’d seen a nerdiness in him only a few weeks ago, I now saw an intelligence. Where I’d seen a straight-arrow rule follower, now I saw a maturity I wished I could emulate. And where I saw the smooth, slightly pink skin of his cheeks … well, there were moments when I wanted to press my lips against that skin, just to see what it would feel like. The thought sent a surprising jolt to the pit of my stomach, and I returned my attention to my work, smiling to myself as I carefully brushed Anna’s “signature color” into the trees.

It was dark by the time I walked home that evening. I felt no fear walking through Edenton’s downtown at night. The town seemed idyllic to me, a charming water-bound haven that was easing the hypervigilance that had been my companion in prison. I no longer looked over my shoulder as I walked. I no longer tightened my fists when I was out in the open, ready to defend myself.

Lisa’s car was gone when I reached the house. I took a bath in the walk-in bathtub that had been installed for Jesse, then headed for the sunroom. In the hall, I passed a small framed medallion I had never truly noticed before. I stopped to look at it, gasping when I realized what it was. The National Medal of Arts. I knew Jesse had been awarded the medal at some time, but it never occurred to me that the actual bronze medallion was here, just a few yards from where I slept each night. I read the inscription on the plaque beneath it.

Presented by President Barack Obama to Jesse Jameson Williams on this day, August 5, 2012