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EPILOGUE I: RAE

ONE MONTH LATER

SOTHEBY'S — PRIVATE SALE / APPRAISAL

Client: Lazarev, Lukas A.

Item:

- Art Deco engagement ring, circa 1925.

- Platinum (hand-forged, showing natural patina).

- Centre Stone: 3.2ct old European cut diamond, G colour, VS1

- Setting: Milgrain bezel with channel-set sapphire accents

Estimated Value:$1,985,000

I wake up whenever I want to these days. No matter what time that is, it always smells like coffee.

The brownstone is much brighter than it used to be. Light is always pouring through the windows and the curtains stay pulled back. All the white sheets have been folded up and stashed away. Dead flowers were swapped out for live ones, refrigerators and pantries filled, paintings and photographs hung back up on the walls. Little by little, it’s returning to life after a winter that lasted eighteen years.

I stretch out in bed and burrow down in the warm impression Lukas left on his side. The sheets still smell like him—sea salt, mint, skin. My skin probably smells like that, too, at this point. We’ve been sleeping wrapped up in each other—often literally—every night for a month. I’ve gotten so used to his scent now that it’s a miracle I ever lived without it.

Through the bedroom skylight, January light pours in. It’s not quite summer sunshine, but it’s nice and unseasonably bright for the time of year, so I’ll take it. I can hear the muffled sounds of Lukas moving around downstairs—cabinet doors opening and closing, the clink of ceramic, the hiss of the espresso machine, the low murmur of a news broadcast he’s almost certainly frowning at.

I can guess why: The trial started two weeks ago. That’s fast as hell by American judicial standards, but I think everyone involved agreed that it’d be nice to get this shit over with. Paparazzi are unbelievably annoying.

Therefore, things are at a bit of a fever pitch. The story dominates every news cycle, along with every front page and blog—and, if I had to guess, every dinner table conversation in at least a fifty-mile radius.

Lukas’s legal team, a bloodthirsty phalanx of razor-sharp attorneys who bill at rates that make my eyes water, filed a motion arguing compassionate circumstances. They presented Elena’s medical records alongside expert testimony from oncologists who confirmed the severity and terminal trajectory of her illness. Pretty compelling argument, in my opinion.

Of course, the prosecution pushed back hard. They painted a picture of Lukas as a ruthless, maniacally controlling husbandwho made a unilateral decision. The first few of those accusations are hard to deny.

Then Elena’s journal excerpts were released.

The lead defense attorney read Elena’s words aloud—”He keeps begging me to try another round of treatment. He doesn’t understand: I’ve already decided”—and by the time they got to the final entry, half the jury was crying. One woman had to be excused so her fellow jurors weren’t washed away in a flood of tears.

The tone of the headlines shifted after that.BILLIONAIRE MURDERERbecameA HUSBAND’S HEARTBREAKING SECRETbecameTHE LAZAREV LETTERS: INSIDE ONE WOMAN’S HEARTBREAKING FINAL WISH.Public opinion, that fickle, bloodthirsty animal, rolled over and showed its soft underbelly.

So now, Lukas’s lawyers are cautiously optimistic. “Cautiously optimistic,” of course, is lawyer-speak for “we think we’re going to win, but we’d rather swallow glass than say so on the record.”

But that’s okay; I’ll be optimistic enough for all of us. I just can’t help feeling these days like better times are right around the corner.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and prop myself up against the headboard. 9:49 A.M., goodness gracious! I must be the laziest girl alive. I have three texts from Jillian. One is a meme about lawyers, another is a link to some podcast episode she wants me to listen to, and then there’s a simpleI love you, call me later. I smile at that last one. It still hurts a little, the memory of everything that happened between us. Too many things went awry.

But at least we’re talking again. We’re doing it carefully, both of us learning to walk on a bridge we each set fire to. Last week, she won a National Press Club award for the Elena story. I sent her a huge bouquet of flowers as congratulations. She sent back a voice note of herself ugly-crying in the newsroom bathroom, which is a brave new step in terms of my armadillo-esque friend showing a wee bit of emotional vulnerability.

We’re rebuilding. Brick by brick. It’s slow and sometimes awkward and, occasionally, one of us says something that lands wrong and we have to back up and try again. But we’re doing it. That counts.

Speaking of things being rebuilt, I open FaceTime and call Gideon.

He picks up on the second ring, and my whole chest unspools at the sight of him.God,he looks happy and wholesome. He’s in the common room at Westgate, sitting cross-legged on a beanbag with a book open in his lap. Behind him, I can see the big window that overlooks the garden, bare trees and frost-tipped grass under a pale sky.

“RaeRae!” He grins. It’s our mother’s grin, wide and unreserved. It makes his whole face rearrange itself around its own happiness. “You look disgustingly well-rested.”

I hide my face in shame. “I slept twelve hours.”