“As a matter of fact, ma’am, yeah, it is,” he says gruffly. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He walks back towards his car where another cop is now standing by the passenger door waiting for him. My frown drags lower.

“Something’s just off,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “I feel like I’ve seen that cop before. Both of them, actually.”

And that’s when it hits me. The smell. The beginning of this nightmare. On the night Adrian and I fought, when he slapped me and stormed out, when I woke up to knocking on my door and answered it to find a uniformed officer on my door, I’d drowned in the scent of patchouli oil.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, grabbing my phone.

“June? What’s going on?”

“What’s happened?”

I don’t answer either one of them. Instead, I type in what I hope is a coherent text message. I’m still typing when something gets chucked through the window streaming smoke. The gas smells strong and thick. It promises oblivion.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I hold my breath and press send before the darkness overwhelms me.

49

JUNE

I feel the notes before I even hear them. It’s the most beautiful feeling. The kind that makes you feel like you can fly if you just jump high enough.

There were moments when I danced when I felt that kind of intoxicating weightlessness. Like this time, gravity might just shrug its shoulders and let me keep going up, and up, and up.

And for a moment, lying here with my eyes closed and my mind open, I feel a vague reverberation of that exact feeling. I’m close to soaring, if only I can get enough momentum.

I used to be able to do it. So why not now?

Then I feel the pain race up my leg and I remember why: I’m not the woman I used to be. I’m not a dancer anymore. I’ve been broken and scarred by this life of mine. I’ve cried and bled. I’ve been through so, so much.

Maybe, though, this is where it all ends.

I can still hear the music, though. The soft melody of piano keys being played. Which means I wasn’t dreaming. Not that part, at least.

My head spins feverishly as I open my eyes and adjust to the brightness. I’m on a bed, but it’s not one I recognize. I turn my head to the side without lifting it from the pillow.

And I spot him.

Adrian sits at the piano bench, spine tall, playing softly. How many times have I watched him just like this? It all feels so familiar that it makes me want to cry.

I struggle slowly upright, my hair tumbling over my face, and the world shifts into its proper position.

He’s not wearing his stained green jacket anymore. The cuffs of his dark, long-sleeved shirt are pushed up to his elbows and his hair is combed back, though he’s left his beard as it was, untamed and unruly.