Chapter 24: The Arch

Four months later, on a Friday at four in the afternoon, I stood at the back of the Oakridge ballroom with my hand on the doorframe.

The white floral arch was at the far end, taller than the doors.

It was the same arch, because I had asked for it.

The brass plate beside the entrance read The Teddy Hartigan Room, and under it, in smaller letters, First Jobs Fund.

There were no folding chairs this time.

There were one hundred and twenty wooden ones, and every seat was full.

The old dispatcher stood beside me in a gray suit, with his cap in one hand and his elbow ready.

"Miss Conwell," he said. "I've got you."

"I know. Let go anyway."

He smiled and lowered his arm.

Preston had pleaded guilty in January.

He was serving twelve years for the death of Teddy Hartigan, for leaving the scene, and for what he had done to me in the hospital with a pen.

Judith was in the same county jail, waiting for her own trial on the body shop and the forged forms.

I had not visited either of them.

The quartet saw me in the doorway and began to play.

My legs were shaking.

They still did that when I was tired, and they probably always would.

But I felt the floor under both soles, the cool hard shine of it through my shoes.

I took the first step by myself.

Heads turned in the rows, and a woman near the aisle pressed her hand over her mouth.

Skylar sat in the fourth row, alone, because I had sent her an invitation.

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