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.