I realize then that he’s staring at something, and follow the line of his gaze to my hand.

He’s very still, and for a moment I just listen to the hard beat of his heart through his chest. It’s strong and steady as the arm wrapped around me, if a little faster than before.

I lift my fingers, the diamond ring throwing fire from the sunset behind us.

“So, um . . . guess what I found.”

“Yeah,” he says and rakes his hair back. “About that.”

His tone catches me off guard, and it occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have made assumptions. For all I know, we—or even he—called it off. Can I blame him? Four weeks ago I didn’t even know who he was.

“I told you a few months ago—”

“It’s okay,” I say, twisting it off.

“No.” He catches at my hand. “Wear it. If you want to. I never got you the diamond I said I was going to. I never got the chance.”

“Oh. Well, I still want that,” I say.

He takes the ring from me, slides it slowly back onto my finger, and then studies it so long I don’t know if he’s looking at the ring or the finger it’s on.

“When I gave you this, I said it looked like a princess ring,” he whispers. “Perfect for you.”

I think of what I said to myself, about Luka being good. Proof of God, even, in this godless mess.

He pulls me closer in the backseat, wraps both arms around me. The edge of the envelope digs into my side.

“So how big of a diamond are we talking about?” he says.

I lean back against him. “Oh, big.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” he murmurs.

“I did leave myself a note to ask you about something when this is all over.”

He shakes his head. “Figures.”

We’ve had so little levity—the truest laugh I ever heard from him was back in Maine, when he thought we were free and I knew no better. I close my eyes, envision the wine aisle of the Food Mart, the Mad Moose on the south side of the lake, the feral ducks gobbling up fries. I pretend, for just this moment, that the note in my pocket does not exist. That I am not plastered on television screens, wanted for murder.

That Nikola has not threatened to kill him by morning.

I catch myself admiring the ring on my finger, and I can’t help but think of Ana. I instantly feel guilty. What right do I have to be happy when the one thing she wanted—a life with Nino—has just been taken from her? When I don’t even know if she’s still alive?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.