But this thought didn’t comfort him. Not enough. The Goblin Police meant business. And once they were on your trail, they stuck to it. Wayne knew this because he’d had to deal with them back when he built The Hedges. The Goblin Police sucked. And now, after watching him like Great Owls, looking for a mishap, they might actually have something on him.

He stood up and went to the closet.

Maybe I don’t need to bring anything at all. Maybe I just need to go.

He opened the closet.

One half was all his stuff. The flannels he wore when he trimmed The Hedges. Jeans. One cotton suit. Some button-down shirts. Boots.

The other side was all Molly’s.

Molly…

He touched an old dress of hers. A light-blue sundress that used to hang off her body like beach sand. He took it off the rack and held it out before him at arm’s length. He held it about where it would be if she were wearing it right now.

He kissed the empty space where her head would be.

“I love you, Molly.”

A lump arose in his throat. He set the dress on the bed.

Back in the closet he touched a pink tank top, brown shorts, a small white dress, a blue shirt. His head felt funny. Spinny. Dizzy with Molly.

Before she died, she used to say, Will you pick out what I’ll wear today?

Wayne loved when she asked this. And more than once she’d turn to find just a pair of underwear lying on the bed.

Wayne! she’d say, her eyes wide in mock shock. Don’t you have ideas! Wayne would laugh and lie on the bed. He did have ideas. He remembered those ideas as the best he ever had.

“We gotta go,” he said. It felt like all of Goblin was pressing upon him. The weight of the city that had celebrated him.

But he couldn’t leave Molly’s things behind. It simply wasn’t the right way for things to end. They could take everything of his. But not Molly’s. No way.

Shit.

Because now this could take a while.

He picked up an old green army bag from the floor of the closet and started putting her stuff inside. A long black winter coat with wolverine fur lining the hood. A lacy, button-up shirt that once drove him crazy. A small orange T-shirt with a white number on the back. Jeans Molly had altered herself. A pink sweatshirt. A black pullover. A white bra with flowers on the breasts.

But the closet clothes weren’t enough.

He grabbed her jewelry box, her perfume, the magazines she last flipped through, her makeup.

Molly used to tell him to stop staring at her while she put her makeup on. But Wayne loved to do it.

You’re addicted, she’d say, rolling her eyes. You need a counselor.