If I’m being honest, I’m at the lowest point I’ve ever been in my life.
But, somehow, standing in Rem’s arms, I don’t feel alone.
I don’t feel lonely.
I don’t feel weak.
I feel like I have something to live for. Tofightfor.
Myself.
Rem’s unwavering strength bolsters my own, cauterizing my determination to do whatever necessary to get my life back. Whether through luck or fate or insanely fucked up circumstances (or maybe all three), I’ve found someone to fight by my side and the level of gratitude I feel right now makes me cling to him tighter.
When Rem eventually pulls away, my fingers are practically frozen where I’ve wound them in his hair. Concern lines his expression. “Your lips are blue. It’s too cold for you to stay here dressed like this. You ready to leave?”
I think I am, but first: “There are a couple of things I’d like to grab, if they survived.”
Rem holds me a second longer. “Quickly. I don’t want my bride getting frostbite on our wedding day.”
I release a startled laugh. Everything about his statement is nonsensical, ridiculous, and true. I look down and see that my white dress is smudged with black soot. So are my hands. Away from Rem’s heat, my teeth start to chatter. Quickly, I go to the small dresser against the opposite wall. It’s almost empty, just a few knickknacks scattered on the sooty surface. I pick up the framed photo of my parents, coated in ash. Rem plucks it from my hands and slides it into his coat pocket as I reach for the one thing I was most worried I wouldn’t be able to find.
The tiny trinket box is exactly where Aunt Mable said it would be, the only item in the top dresser drawer. Heart in mouth, I flip open the lid, sighing in relief when I find the gold necklace still inside. The pendant is cold, but its weight is comforting in my fingers.
I slip it into my coat pocket, emotions too raw to show it to Rem right now. If he notices, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he wraps his arm around my waist and tucks me into his side. “Let’s get you somewhere warm, and out of these very dirty clothes.”
“Yes, please. But first there’s one more stop we have to make.”
I walk outof the police station utterly drained. I think Rem is carrying half my bodyweight, my side practically glued to his. “I hate not knowing when they’ll be able to release her body. Not knowing when I’ll be able to bury her.”
Rem opens the car’s passenger door, holds my hand as he helps me in. “Whenever they are able to,mia amata, I hope you know you aren’t alone.” He brushes a kiss across my fingers. “I’ll help you any way I can, with whatever you need.”
Tears pool in my eyes. I blink rapidly, not wanting to fall apart again. “Thank you.”
“For you,bella, anything.”
I’m quiet for the car ride, staring sightlessly out the window. I’m clueless to my surroundings until Rem pulls into a long driveway flanked by tall hedgerows. This isn’t the way back to Chicago. “Where are we?”
Rem answers with a sly smile, deftly maneuvering the car around another bend. I don’t know whether to be scared or excited or both. We go around one more turn and a building comes into view.
No, building isn’t the right word. It’s too beautiful for that. It looks like a mansion, with neoclassical pillars that frame the portico entrance and continue outwards along the lengthy front of the building, pristine white and welcoming.
As we come around the final bend and Rem stops the car, I see a small sign, the font understated and elegant. I gape at him. “This is The Fitzroy Hotel. It’s the most exclusive hotel inthe entire state. Maybe even in this part of the country. What are we doing here?”
Rem’s smile grows into a mega-watt grin. The first I’ve seen on him since we met. He’s more than just beautiful. He’s happy. And, despite everything awful that has happened, I find myself returning the smile as he says, “We have a reservation.”
As if on cue my stomach growls. My appetite has been hit or miss recently, but apparently it knows when to make a comeback. I clamp my hands over my stomach, frowning when I see the soot smudges on my dress. “I can’t eat in a fancy restaurant looking like this.”
Rem slides a finger down my throat, smiling wider when my eyelids flutter with instant awareness. “Mrs. Cosenza, you could walk into the White House dressed in torn sweatpants and no one would dare say a thing. But, as it happens, we’re not just here to eat.”
He points out the window to a man dressed in an expensive suit, hands clasped behind his back, clearly waiting for us to get out of the car.
“He looks like a butler.”
“Because he is. Now, come.”
The next few moments pass like the scene from a movie. Someone whisks Rem’s car away as we follow Mr. Carlton, as the butler introduced himself, into a door marked Private set just inside the building’s main entrance. Inside, several of Rem’s men are waiting for us. Two of them guard our front, with two following us close behind.
Mr. Carlton leads us through a maze of corridors, all of which are void of people, until we come out into a hall that ends at a set of double doors.