Excerpt
Prologue Jill I buried my father the day after my seventeenth birthday. Even the sun was cruel that morning, an obscenely bright but cold January day. The snow that smothered the cemetery glared harshly white, blinding those mourners who couldnt squeeze under the tent that covered Dads open grave. And the tent itself gleamed crisply, relentlessly white, so it hurt a little to look at that, too. Hurt a lot, actually. Against this inappropriately immaculate backdrop, splashes of black stood in stark relief, like spatters of ink on fresh paper: the polished hearse that glittered at the head of the procession, the ministers perfectly ironed shirt, and the sober coats worn by my fathers many friends and colleagues, who came up one by one after the service to offer Mom and me their condolences. Maybe I saw it all in terms of color because Im an artist. Or maybe I was just too overwhelmed to deal with anything but extremes. Maybe my grief was so raw that the whole world seemed severe and discordant and clashing. I dont remember a word the minister said, but he seemed to talk forever. And as the gathering began to break up, I, yesterdays birthday girl, stood there under that tent fidgeting in my own uncomfortable, new black dress and heavy wool coat, on stage like some perverse debutante at the worlds worst coming-out party. I looked to my mother for support, for help, but her eyes seemed to yawn as vacant as Dads waiting grave. I swear, meeting Moms gaze was almost as painful as looking at the snow, or the casket, or watching the endless news reports about my fathers murder. Mom was disappearing, too . . . Feeling something close to panic, I searched the crowd. Who would help me now? I wasnt ready to be an adult . . . Was I really . . . alone? Even my only friend, Becca Wright, had begged off from the funeral, protesting that she had a big civics test, which shed already rescheduled twice because of travel for cheerleading. And, more to the point, she just "couldnt handle" seeing my poor, murdered father actually shoved in the ground. I looked around for my chemistry teacher, Mr. Messerschmidt, whom Id seen earlier lingering on the fringes of the mourners, looking nervous and out of place, but I couldnt find him, and I assumed that hed returned to school, without a word to me. Alone. I was alone. Or maybe I was worse than alone, because just when I thought things couldnt get more awful, my classmate Darcy Gray emerged from the crowd, strode up, and thrust her chilly hand into mine, air-kissing my cheek. And even this gesture, which I knew Darcy offered more out of obligation than compassion, came across like the victors condescending acknowledgment of the vanquished. When Darcy said, "So sorry for your loss, Jill," I swore it was almost like she was congratulating herself for still having parents. Like shed bested me once more, as she had time and again since kindergarten. "Thanks," I said stupidly, like I genuinely appreciated being worthy of pity. "Call me if you need anything," Darcy offered. Yet I noticed that she didnt jot down her cell number. Didnt even reach into her purse and feign looking for a pen. "Thanks," I said again. Why was I always acting grateful for nothing? "Sure," Darcy said, already looking around for an escape route. As she walked away, I watched her blond hair gleaming like a golden trophy in that too-brilliant sun, and the loneliness and despair that had been building in me rose to a crescendo that was so powerful I wasnt quite sure how I managed to keep my knees from buckling. Not one real friend there for me . . . Thats when I noticed Tristen Hyde standing at the edge of the tent. He wore a very adult, tailored overcoat, unbuttoned, and I could see that he had donned a tie, too, for this occasion. He had his hands buried in his pockets, a gesture that I first took as signaling discomfort, unease. I mean, what teenage guy wouldnt be uncomfortable at a funeral? And I hardly knew Tristen. It wasnt like we were friends. Hed certainly never met my father. Yet there he was, when almost nobody else had shown up for me. Why? Why had he come? When Tristen saw that Id noticed him, he pulled his hands from his pockets, and I realized that he wasnt uneasy at all. In fact, as he walked toward me, I got the impression that hed just been waiting, patiently, for his turn. For the right time to approach me. And what a time he picked. It couldnt have been more dead on. "Its going to be okay," he promised as he came up to me, reaching out to take my arm, like he realized that I was folding up inside, on the verge of breaking down. I looked up at him, mutely shaking my head in the negative. No, it was not going to be okay. He could not promise that. Nobody could. Certainly not some kid from my high school, even a tall one dressed convincingly like a full-fledged man. I shook my head more vehemently, tears welling in my eyes. "Trust me," he said softly, his British accent soothing. He squeezed my arm harder. "I know what Im talking about." I didnt know at the time that Tristen had vast experience with this "grief" thing. All I knew was that I let him, a boy I barely knew, wrap his arms around me and pull me to his chest. And suddenly, as he smoothed my hair, I really started weeping. Letting out all the tears that Id bottled up, from the moment that the police officer had knocked on the door of our house to say that my father had been found butchered in a parking lot outside the lab where he worked, and all through planning the funeral, as my mother fell to pieces, forcing me to do absurd, impossible things like select a coffin and write insanely large checks to the undertaker. Suddenly I was burying myself under Tristens overcoat, nearly knocking off my eyeglasses as I pressed against him, and sobbing so hard that I must have soaked his shirt and tie. When I was done, drained of tears, I pulled away from him, adjusting my glasses and wiping my eyes, sort of embarrassed. But Tristen didnt seem bothered by my show of emotion. "It does get better, hurt less," he assured me, repeating, "Trust me, Jill." Such an innocuous little comment at the time, but one that would become central to my very existence in the months to come. Trust me, Jill . . . "Ill see you at school," Tristen added, pressing my arm again. Then he bent down, and in a gesture I found incredibly mature, kissed my cheek. Only I shifted a little, caught off-guard, not used to being that near to a guy, and the corners of our lips brushed. "Sorry," I murmured, even more embarrassed—and kind of appalled with myself. Id never even come close to kissing a guy on the lips under any circumstances, let alone on such a terrible day. Not that Id really felt anything, of course, and yet . . . It just seemed wrong to even consider anything but death at that moment. How could I even think about how some guy felt, how he smelled, how it had been just to give up and be held by somebody stronger than me? My father was DEAD. "Sorry," I muttered again, and I think I was kind of apologizing to Dad, too. "Its okay," Tristen reassured me, smiling a little. He was the first person whod dared to smile at me since the murder. I didnt know what to make of that, either. When should people smile again? "See you, okay?" he said, releasing my arm. I hugged myself, and it seemed a poor substitute for the embrace Id just been offered. "Sure. See you. Thanks for coming." I followed his progress as Tristen wandered off through the graves, bending over now and then to brush some snow off the tombstones, read an inscription, or maybe check a date, not hurrying, like graveyards were his natural habitat. Familiar territory. Tristen Hyde had come for . . . me. Why? But there was no more time to reflect on whatever motives had driven this one particular classmate to attend a strangers burial, because suddenly the funeral director was tapping my shoulder, telling me that it was time to say any final goodbyes before the procession of black cars pulled away from the too-white tent and the discreetly positioned backhoe hurried in to do its job because there was more snow in the forecast. "Okay," I said, retrieving my mother and guiding her by the hand, forcing us both to bow our heads one last time. We sealed my fathers grave on a day of stark contrasts, of black against white, and it was the last time Id ever find myself in a place of such extremes. Because in the months after the dirt fell on the coffin, my life began to shift to shades of gray, almost like the universe had taken a big stick and stirred up the whole scene at that cemetery, mixing up everything and repainting my world. As it turned out, my father wasnt quite the man wed all thought he was. Correction. Nothing and no one, as I would come to learn, would turn out to be quite what theyd seemed back on that day. Not even me. And Tristen . . . He would prove to be the trickiest, the most complicated, the most compelling of all the mysteries that were about to unravel.