I must have stood alone on the street for a good half an hour, cold wind blasting my tear-streaked face. Though I looked a right mess, my eyes red and hair messed up, I still managed to avoid drawing attention. It was one thing I liked about New York. Everyone was always so busy, rushing to get somewhere that they didn't notice, or cared about a random teen girl crying on the sidewalk.

By the time I finally calmed down enough to look around, the sky was already beginning to darken. I wiped at my cheeks then, resolve blossoming in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't let Mason's words faze me. He was a rude and heartless bastard who always lashed out at those who cared. What he said shouldn't have surprised or bothered me in the slightest.

-Then why does it hurt so much?

I swallowed another bout of tears and forced my legs to move, to distract myself. I still needed to find Logan. He and Mason might have some strange, transcendental bond now, but he was still my problem and my reap. I had to get to him before something horrible happened and he hurt someone. Or worse, himself.

-But where would I even start?

In Brooklyn alone, there were over 2 million people, and that was just one area of New York. Seeing as how he wasn't home, the one place everyone would go back to the moment something horrible happened to them, Logan could have gone anywhere. He could have even left town, and I didn't know enough about him to guess which place he was most likely to haunt. I gritted my teeth, wanting to scream.

-Crap.

I debated going back to the apartment to talk to Austin again, but seeing how I didn't have Mason around to help me wrestle the shotgun from him in case things went bad, I reconsidered. Instead, I crossed the street and went back to Juilliard's campus. I had no clue where I was heading, but I figured moving was better than standing still.

After a few moments, I came across a small, fast-food joint and mechanically decided to give in to the demands of my howling stomach. I went inside, and without really looking, ordered the first thing on the menu. While rifling through my pockets for change, I pulled out a fistful of crumpled papers I'd accidentally taken from Logan's desk. After paying, I moved towards the trashcan, ready to throw them, when something caught my attention.

The polished, reflective surface of a business card was folded into the crumpled ball of ripped book pages and school notes. It was the card for that fancy restaurant I'd found in Logan's bullet journal. I turned the thing over, ready to dump it in the trash when I spied what was written on the back.

-Moira Winslow, owner, and manager.

I immediately frowned and took a closer look. Winslow. The woman had the same last name as Logan.

-Is she a relative?

Realizations, one after another slammed into me like a ton of bricks the moment I turned the card over to glance at the address. Instead of the papers, I dumped the food in the trash, much to my stomach's disappointment. Ignoring the confused look the cashier was giving me, I rushed out the fast-food joint. I knew exactly where Logan was.

Since this was a very exclusive and fancy French restaurant, it was obviously located in SoHo. I had to change two subway trains and a bus to get to lower Manhattan. I waded through a steady stream of people trying not to look like I was hopelessly lost in a part of town I'd never set foot in. After around ten minutes of walking, I began wondering whether or not I was crazy for coming here when an invisible force made me stop dead in my track. I glared around in confusion, uneasiness making my stomach churn. I was quite literally in the middle of a busy street with nothing but cars, shops, and passersby rushing past me. The air rang out with the sounds of traffic, the stench of exhaust fumes and impending rain.

Exhaustion set in, and I was about to stop someone to ask for directions when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. A dark silhouette stood in a back alley his distant, sorrowful gaze glued to something in front of him. I felt that familiar electric current buzz through me long before I recognized that godawful sweatshirt we'd stolen from the Kowalskis. My fingers warmed, and I moved into the alley.

"Logan?" I said softly, trying not to scare him. He must have seen me coming because he didn't react to me abruptly appearing next to him. "Logan, it's me. It's Violet."

He said nothing, continuing to stare ahead, his blue eyes swimming with hidden meaning I couldn't quite comprehend. Under the dim streetlight, the black circles around his eyes clashed sharply with his chalky skin, so much so that he looked like he was wearing Halloween ghoul makeup.

"Hey, can you hear me? I came to take you back."

He stayed silent. Fear bloomed in my chest.

"I thought it would be different." He murmured after a few moments, pressing his lips into a firm, thin line.

"What?" I blinked and followed the direction of his gaze.

I found the intricately designed restaurant window with the title Lumiere hand-painted on the glass pane in brilliant gold. Despite the giant closed sign plastered on the door, two people-a man and a woman-were sitting inside, illuminated by soft orange lights. Both of them seemed distant. The woman was dressed from head to toe in a simple black pencil skirt and blazer, her hazel curls framing her delicate, pale face as she stared into the distance. She didn't even acknowledge the man sat across from her, ignoring his frustrated attempts to speak with her. She looked familiar.

My hand went into my pocket, to finger the polished surface of the business card. I'd been right.

"I thought she'd be different somehow," Logan murmured once again, and I turned to face him and his hair of sun-bleached wood. The same hair the woman had, only hers was a few shades darker. Just like his had been when he was alive.

-So this would be his mom. Moira Winslow.

It should have occurred to me sooner. People did always go back home when strange and horrible things happened to them. Their real home, the place where they grew up, the house that hosted their fondest childhood memories. Not their lonesome, college flat.

Logan had gone back to his family.

I felt dumb for not thinking of it. Our search would have ended hours ago if I had.

-And Adriane Litchfield would be...

I shook my head, refusing to dwell on dark matters. What was done, was done.

"I know," I said, letting my hand slip into Logan's. The same eerie, buzzing feeling swept through me, and I squeezed him tighter, letting him feel it as well.

He blinked, and his eyes locked with mine. Gone was that eerie dullness that had plagued them after he'd woken up. Now, they vibrated with thousands of shades of blue and grey, and I felt like I was staring into a private, stormy sky only visible through two cloudy orbs.

"It's over, isn't it?" he said. His voice so small against the vacuum of silence that had descended on us. It was as if the world around us had disappeared, consumed by whatever force bound us together.

I gave him a weak, halfhearted smile, my heart hammering in my chest.

"Yeah," I said.

He made a pained expression, his gaze going to the restaurant window where his mother and I assumed, father still sat. I could taste the bitter pain rolling off him in heavy waves. It tasted of resignation. He reminded me so much of myself, the day I'd finally accepted what had happened to me, that it made me physically sick.

"Let's go back, okay?" I said, gently pulling him by the hand.

He let me lead him out of the small alley, without a single word of protest. Our journey back to the warehouse was a blur, plagued by a sorrowful silence. I wanted to ask him so many things, if he was okay, if he'd done something, hurt someone, but kept my mouth shut. I'd needed space after my death to process things, and the fact neither Kevin nor my dark overlord Death had given it to me seriously messed me up.

The situation was dire, and common sense demanded that I sort it out. Yet I decided to put everything on hold, at least for a little while to give Logan time to grieve. I was not about to make Kevin's mistakes and put work above Logan's well-being. He deserved more than that.

For the rest of our bus and subway ride, I sat quietly beside him, deriving a strange kind of comfort from his cold fingers, loosely entwined with mine. Once we got off in Brooklyn, we walked like that, hand in hand, too tired and afraid to let go. We reached our destination, just as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, leaving a trail of fiery red and orange to splatter the cloudless sky.

A wave of surprise struck me, when we found Mason already inside, seated on a windowsill. Though traces of rage and sorrow resurfaced when I saw his stupid cocky face, I somehow found time to be self-conscious of the fact I was holding hands with my reap. I reluctantly let go of Logan and put some distance between us even though that was the last thing I wanted to do. I was just about ready to unleash a torrent of quips at my dick of a colleague when I noticed the way his forehead wrinkled in pain.

My stomach dropped.

"Mason?" I called out, my voice frail against the dead air.

He didn't respond. His amber eyes seemed vacant. Like he was physically here with us, but mentally stuck in some far away limbo.

I blinked and swallowed hard, dread pooling in my stomach. Signaling Logan not to move, I drew closer to Mason, my concern for him overshadowing the anger and bitterness I felt about the fight we'd had earlier. I would deal with my wounded pride later.

"Mason, what happened?" I breathed, feeling my fingers tremble.

He continued to stare blankly through the window, his mouth slightly agape. I noticed then just how pale he seemed, like a ghostly phantom, moments away from vanishing into nothing.

"Mason?"

Finally, he sparked to life, his gaze slowly pinning mine. So many emotions swirled in those amber caverns, that I could have sworn I could hear them, buzzing like an angry beehive. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Realizing this, he desperately began shaking his head.

"I don't... I don't understand? What happened?"

He gazed at me, like a deer in headlights, before deciding he had no words to explain. So he showed me instead. Lifting the sleeve of his bicker jacket, he exposed his wrist to the fading golden light of the setting sun.

I stared. The world disappeared, sucked inside a dark void.

-Oh.

The skin was pale, smooth, with prominent cobalt veins marring the pale cream of his wrist. It was also bare.

The line. Mason's last line. His last chance in this world as a Grim Reaper.

It was gone.