Jane nodded. “I won’t speak his name to you because your ears aren’t worthy to hear it. And please”—she held out a hand and lightly caressed his arm then pulled back—“I don’t mean that as an insult to you. It’s just that . . . his name is sacred to me, and I’ve sworn to never say it aloud. I hope you understand.”

“I don’t care what his name was,” Tick mumbled under his breath.

Jane’s hands shook again, and Tick winced. Shut up, Tick, he thought. Don’t say another word or she might twist your head off!

“He loved the color yellow.” Jane laughed, a distant, surprisingly light-hearted chuckle that faded as quickly as it began. “It was strange how much he loved the color. Yellow shirts were his favorite; he painted the walls of his home yellow. And he always gave me daisies and daffodils. I asked him once why he loved it so much and he told me it was because yellow represented peace. And if anything described the life and purpose of that man, it was peace.”

Tick rolled his eyes, quickly rubbing his face to hide it from Jane.

“I loved him, Atticus. I loved him so much. It hurt me when I had to say good-bye to him and attend to my Realitant missions and assignments. It hurt me when he kissed me good night, whenever his hand let go of mine. That’s the only way I can truly describe how much he meant to me. I loved him so much, it hurt. I would have done anything to take away that pain, to be with him every second of every day. I loved him so much, I almost hated him.”

A ball of sickness grew in Tick’s belly. He didn’t know why—and he certainly didn’t understand all this lovey-dovey stuff Jane was talking about—but something about it made him ill. Something about it was obsessive.

“And then it happened,” Jane said. “The tragedy that would serve as the changing point of my life, the moment that defined my purpose from that day forward.”

After a long pause, Tick asked, “What happened?” He couldn’t help it—he wanted to know.

“He was murdered.” She screeched the word, a raw squeal from the back of her throat. “Killed by inhuman slugs who’d only wanted money. Killed by slime and filth, left in his own blood, suffering as it leaked out drop by drop. Slaughtered like an animal by animals, and there was nothing I could do to save him. He was taken from me, Atticus. The only person I’d ever truly loved, and he was taken from me.”