“Was it the call I overheard?”

“Yeah. Mom told me that he had shown up at the meet and greet at one of her concerts and had tried to threaten her before security kicked him out. Knowing that, it seemed plausible.”

She looked away, rubbing a hand over her eyes. My heart sank at the thought; Noelle, who always beamed when a new package from her mom arrived, who collected magazines about her, and who had played me her music with so much pride, had been terrified enough for her mother to put herself in such danger, to go and meet the man from whom she had fled to the other end of the world. “I left the castle while on a video call with him so he could make sure I wasn’t talking to anyone—all I managed was the note you found, which I had to write while still staring into the phone so he wouldn’t suspect anything—and got into his car in the woods. He took me to this holiday rental where he had lived the last few days and had all his stuff and then took me to the airport. He wanted to take a private jet to fucking Switzerland.”

“How . . . how did you convince him to let you call me?” I asked.

“He knew that we were together from The Chitter Chatter. I told him I wanted to say good-bye to you before we left for the airport so I could let go of the past and be all his, or some shit,”

she snorted, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in her voice. “The fucker was delusional enough to believe me.”

Meeting her eyes again, I tried for a shaky smile. “That hint you gave about Wuthering Heights was really smart.”

She pulled her sleeves over her knuckles, her eyes looking a little clearer, not as far away as they had a few moments ago. “I knew you would like that.”

I was silent for a moment, the only sound filling the hallway the humming of the ceiling lights and the clicking of computer keyboards from behind the closed doors. Finally, I murmured,

“But after everything he did . . . How is this okay? How can you stand it when I touch you?”

“You have never been like him,” she softly said. “You know . . .

before I met you I always thought love was something violent, that it was about taking something from the other. But you never tried to take. You just gave so much, more than I sometimes felt I even deserved. You showed me the difference between being in love and thinking love was the same thing as fear and all its symptoms—the heart racing and the shaking and the willingness to give up all of yourself to make the other person happy. You showed me that it doesn’t—shouldn’t—hurt.”

I swallowed hard. Warmth was pooling behind my eyes, but I was determined not to let the tears spill. If Noelle could tell her entire story without crying, I could keep it together now. “What about the others? Elias?”