MONROE'S POV - TWO YEARS AGO

      "HOW ARE YOU FEELING, MISS?" 

      The glass of the car's window pane was cool against my temple. The driver was from Social Services―an elderly man by the name of Wilhelm, who told me he'd once been in the police force. We'd been traveling for almost twelve hours, and I hadn't slept since the airplane ride here. 

      How am I feeling?  Well, Wilhelm, my whole family is dead. What do you think?  But I didn't open my mouth, didn't meet his gaze in the rearview mirror, didn't do anything but close my eyes. Maybe this was the dream, and when I woke up, I'd be able to see Dad driving the car instead. Mom in the passenger seat, green eyes bright, teasing him.

      But they were dead, and it was my fault.

     My fault, for winning that stupid award, for wanting them to see, to know about it. All I'd wanted was for my parents to be proud of me. Now I had nothing left but a half-packed luggage and a grandma I'd never even met.

     I'd begged, pleaded, cried―none of it had persuaded Social Services. 

     Let me stay with Aaron, I'd said. Let me stay with my uncle. I don't want to go. This is my home. 

     I was fifteen, turning sixteen, but I may as well have been a small child throwing a tantrum. My father's will specifically stated, on the condition that he and Mom died, I would stay with Grandma Angel. Permanently. So it didn't matter that my uncle was the better choice, that going to live with her would mean leaving my hometown and my high school: I would be escorted to Dallas, Texas, even if it meant they'd have to stuff me in the back of the trunk and hog-tie me the whole way there.

      My only option was a legal battle, and I didn't have the money or the motivation for it. The determination, along with the begging and the tears, had slowly been leaching out of me. Fading away with the landscape.

      Aaron seemed so far away. My life seemed so far away.

     "You'll be alright, you know," said Wilhelm's gruff voice. "You're a tough girl."

     Again, I didn't speak. You don't know anything about me. Anything. The words didn't―couldn't―come. 

     Within another hour, the car slowed to a final stop. Gravel crunched beneath the tires, tree branches snapping against the windows. I was going to laugh if I opened my eyes and found myself in the middle of nowhere, about to be murdered by the soft-spoken Child Services agent. At least I'd get to see my parents again.

     But . . . it wasn't a desolate stretch of forest, ripe with shadows and places to hide a body. 

     I opened the car door, forgetting about my suitcase entirely. The tree branches weren't just trees―they were cherry blossoms. Pink and white, blooming with muted colour. They concealed a large, cottage-like house from view: stony walls and enormous, sun-bright windows. Leading up to the house, I noticed a thin, colourful walkway. And a woman with hair as dark as mine, although her eyes seemed to glow golden rather than green. Kneeling in the earth, gloves up to her wrists, she looked up at me and smiled. 

     It was dazzling, that smile. She had to be at least seventy, but the light still twinkled in her eyes like she'd only recently been up to mischief. 

     I didn't move. There was no way this was real. Cherry blossoms and a field and a cottage. Where the hell was I? Maybe this was an elaborate kidnapping plan, and I'd be hauled off into the basement any moment now. 

     Wilhelm said, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Monroe." 

     The suitcase thudded to the ground at my feet. I felt like a kid at the beginning of a fantasy novel, off on some magical adventure. 

     "Non vuoi rimanere per un caffè?"  said the old woman.

      It had to be Italian, but she spoke too fast for me to understand it. Wilhelm shook his head and responded, but I was dizzy now―with the warm sun and the blood rushing to my limbs and the fatigue of a long journey. I picked up my suitcase, clutching the handle like I could wield it as a weapon. 

      "You must be Monroe," the old woman said, slipping off her gloves. Her tan skin revealed a lifetime of sun, of hard work. She seemed thin but strong, with slender muscles on her bare arms and legs. From a distance, she didn't seem old at all. But up close, the wrinkles near her eyes, her mouth―they gave her away.

      I didn't say anything.

     "I'm afraid we've never met before," she continued. A faint Italian accent laced her words. Mesmerizing. "I'm sorry about that. Your father thought it was best you didn't know who I was until you were . . . older."

      She seemed genuinely regretful. But for all I knew, she could have been an actress. Dad had never spoken about her, never even told me he'd had a mother who was still alive. Why had he made this woman my designated guardian? Why tear me away from my hometown to come . . . here?

      And where was here, other than somewhere in Dallas, Texas? 

     It was beautiful, granted. But it wasn't home. It would never be home.

    Just like that, the anger I'd been missing lit me from within. A fuel ignited. I took a step forward and said, "If you care about me, at all, you'll let me go home to my uncle.  To my real family."

     The old woman didn't flinch, but I saw the flicker of hurt that collapsed her serene expression. Just for a moment. 

     "I'm Angel," she said. "When you're ready to call me Grandma, or Nonna, feel free. But until then, come inside."

     Her tone brooked no room for argument. I wasn't done fighting, but I sensed she wouldn't offer me any more ammo. So I followed her up the lovely coloured-glass walkway, letting her lead me inside her cottage. My fist tightened on the suitcase. I wondered, if I took a wild swing, whether it'd scare her enough to send me back home. I didn't want to hit her, only intimidate her. She couldn't possibly want a troubled teenager, after all.

     "Try it," said Angel softly.

     "What?"

     Inside, the house was bathed in warm rays of sunshine. Cherry blossom flowers pressed up against the large glass windows. Pale shadows danced over the red- and black-velvet furniture. I might as well have stepped into a Roman palace, albeit far more cozy.

     "Swing your suitcase." Angel's eyes met mine. In the dim light of the foyer, they were hazel. Had she read my mind, or somehow noticed my tightening grip on the handle? Who was she? "Go ahead, mia cara."

     I dropped the suitcase with a clatter. "What's your problem?" 

    "You can leave," Angel said. "I'll let you go back home. But all I ask for, in return, is a month." Her Italian accent was soft, syrupy. "One month, and then you can decide your answer."

    "I want to go home now." I was acting like a small child. But my parents had just died, and here was a stranger, telling me she wanted to spend thirty days with me. I was supposed to know her―I could see the echo of my father's expression in her face―but I didn't. I didn't know her, I didn't know where I was, and I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

     Angel's eyes softened. She picked up my fallen suitcase for me. Lightly skimmed her hand over my wrist. "Let me show you your room, tesora della nonna. Come on, don't cry."

     Vaguely, I wondered what she'd just called me. But I was grateful, so grateful, that she hadn't told me everything was going to be okay. That everything was alright. She was the first person who seemed to understand the last fucking I wanted to hear was you're a tough girl.

    I DIDN'T COME OUT of my room until breakfast. I'd spent the entire afternoon and the whole night in the soft haven of the bed. On the nightstand, there was a picture of a young woman with pretty blue eyes. She had short, chin-length blonde hair and a smile that radiated happiness even from within the confines of a photograph.

    The moment I'd seen it, I'd flipped the picture down. I didn't want to see some stranger's happiness. Didn't want her smiling at me while I went to bed, when I woke up.

    It had to be early morning when I heard Angel's soft knock at the door.

   "Mia cara, come eat something." 

    I didn't answer, didn't move a muscle until I knew she was gone. But I was starving, and it felt pointless to lay there all day. Within ten minutes, I had finished brushing my teeth and showering. My new changes of clothes was hardly an improvement from the sweatpants I'd been wearing before, but at least they were clean.

     Tentatively, I sat down at the table. Eggs, sausages and what appeared to be small loaves of bread were situated in front of me.

     From behind me, Angel said, "I figured you were hungry."

     The loaves of bread turned out to be sweet, dusted in sugar. I'd never tasted anything like it before. If it had been anyone else, I'd have demanded to know the recipe. But I refused to give into Angel's contemplative stare, to the silence that permeated the kitchen like ice.

     I had already made up my mind. Of course I'd be leaving at the end of the month. Why would I stay?

    When I was done, I gathered my plate off the table. Intending to wash my own dish, I turned on the tap and eyed the neon green soap. But I felt Angel's weathered hand on my shoulder. 

    "Leave it," she said. "And come with me."

    I wasn't in the mood to argue. I left the plate in the sink and followed her outside. Already, the sun burned hot, forcing me to squint up between the cherry blossom branches. Sweat pricked my neck, and I opened my mouth to say something spiteful, something that would make her hate me. I didn't get the chance. The moment my lips parted, the world spun on its axis.

     In the blink of an eye, I was flat on my back in the earth. Sun warming my face. I hadn't even had time to make a sound of shock.

    Angel stared down at me, a devilish smile pulling on the corner of her mouth. 

   "How did you―what did you―"

   She didn't answer. She only held out a seemingly fragile hand. An offer. 

   No way in hell I'd take her hand after she'd just shoved me flat on my ass. I hadn't figured she'd had it in her. Then I remembered how she'd seemed to read my mind yesterday, daring me to swing my suitcase at her. I'd never met an old woman like her before. No―I'd never met anyone like her before.

   I slowly rose to my feet. Dusting myself off.

  "How?" was all I could manage.

   This time, I had a heartbeat of warning. Her leg swept out, a lightning-flash movement, hooking behind mine. For the second time, I had the wind knocked out of me. 

   "Stop me," she said. "Get back on your feet. Stay on your feet."

    The challenge licked my bones like tongues of fire. I scrambled back a little, trying to gain some distance, and then jumped up. I held out my fists, like maybe that would stop her. Could I really hit an old lady?  I wondered.

     After four times of her slamming me to the ground, I decided that I could. 

    Six is the charm, I thought. I breathed in, breathed out. What had I noticed so far about the way she attacked? Her leg swept out, with so much speed and strength that either jumping or resisting didn't work. Even if I backed away from her, she moved steadily closer. 

     Maybe this time I shouldn't retreat. Instead of stepping back, I moved in towards her. Her eyes lit up. The grin that curved her mouth was absolutely devilish. 

     When her leg shot outwards, I grabbed both her shoulders. This time, we both ended up on the ground. 

     I had a fraction of a second to hope I hadn't just killed an old lady. Within moments, she had recovered enough to spin me over and pin me down on my back. In the morning light, her black hair was haloed in gold. She gripped me with ferocity, with determination I'd never seen before. 

     "Good," she said. "You have potential."

     "This seems like a really fucked-up version of the Karate Kid, you know." And then I punched her mouth.

     I shouldn't have hit an old lady, even if she'd spent the last thirty minutes bruising my spine. I regretted it the moment my fist collided with her jaw. And for what felt like an eternity, she only stared at me.

    Then she laughed.

    "I like you, Monroe. You remind me of . . ." A cloud passed over her features. A half-buried sadness. She shook her head, smiled again. "We're going to have fun, you and I."

     FOR THE NEXT MONTH, I grew to understand several things about Angel. The first being that she never, ever spoke of anything about her past. I'd once seen a photograph of a wedding in Italy―one girl in a red suit, the other in a dress―and I'd asked her about it. Immediately, her expression had shuttered into nothing but bleak ice. I'd learned my lesson again, when I asked her why she'd immigrated to Texas of all places. 

     This is my home now, she'd said.

     But what about Italy? You speak the language and―

    That's enough, Monroe.

     I'd also figured out that the woman in the photograph at my nightstand had to be someone she loved. Blue eyes, short blonde hair and hands that were always, always paint-stained. Fingertips and wrists and hair, smeared with purple and red and orange colour. In every photograph, she grinned like she'd just finished a masterpiece.

     I didn't know the woman's name, but I figured she was dead.

    It was the only explanation for why Angel averted her eyes at every photograph of her―and God, there were so many, sunny smile and blue eyes everywhere―and why the one time I had told her she could talk to me, if she needed to, she'd only given me a stony look.

     Every morning, Angel and I fought outside on the lawn. She gave me a routine of exercises: pull-ups, push-ups, and at least ten variations of kicking I hadn't known existed. 

     And the way she battled . . . there was no other word for it. She was amazing. I had no idea how she'd learned to throw a punch like that, how to deliver an end to a fight so swiftly, but I'd never seen it anywhere. 

     Did you fight in the war? The army? The Marines?  I asked her.

    No. That was all: a short, sharp no.

    Were you a part of the CIA or the FBI? Were you a police officer?

    Again: No. 

    Come on, tell me. How about an international spy? Were you raised by assassins?

    No.

    The only time I'd come close to a different answer was when I'd asked: What, were you a part of the mob or something? The Mafia? The Yakuza? Give me something, won't you? 

    Leave it alone, she'd said coldly.

    During the day, Angel provided me with textbooks. For all intents and purposes, the government thinks I'm homeschooling you. So I am. The pages were lovingly worn, as if some other girl, some other granddaughter, had spent her days here too. Reading and cooking and learning how to fight like a CIA agent. I didn't even recognize all the tasks for what they were until the third week: distractions.

    By that point, I'd dropped the hostility towards Angel. She was more of a curiosity to me, something for me to marvel at. Her lightning-fast reflexes, the way she noticed my body language from a distance. She never raised her voice, never yelled or took out her anger on me. But while she was mostly silent, mostly still, she never reminded me of ice. Only the hottest kind of fire, wicked and blue and bright.

     Against my will, I liked her. Which made it harder when I confronted her about the distractions.

    "Is this all a―a ploy, to make me forget about grieving?"

    Angel looked up. It was evening now, and the sun had fallen below the horizon. Warm pink drenched the sky, unspooling over the clouds like cotton candy. 

    "No," she said. "I want you to grieve. But I also don't want that spark inside you to die."

    At the end of the month, when the time came, Angel asked me if I'd like to stay or go―just like she'd promised she would.

    I thought I'd known my answer. But I surprised myself when I whispered, "I want to stay." And I surprised myself even more by adding, "Grandma."

    AFTER THAT, LIVING WITH her stopped feeling like a vacation, like a break or a pause or something temporary, impermanent. She made me practice physics in the living room, and she lent all of her books to me with little notes written in the margins. They weren't in her handwriting, which made me believe they had to belong to that blonde woman. Or, at least, they once had.

     Every month, for six months, Angel asked me if I wanted to leave. It was always after supper, always when the evening had dimmed and the day was over. Giving me a chance to think about it, contemplate it.

      My answer stayed the same. After a while, I stopped hesitating at all. And on the sixth month, I told her not to ask me again. That it wasn't necessary.

     Grandma Angel opened up a little more after that, maybe because she knew I wouldn't flee. She told me about Dad, how she and her wife had adopted him in their forties. He'd been only a boy, the son of someone they knew from Italy. It explained my faint resemblance to Angel, with the tan skin and the pitch-black hair.

      She told me about how they'd raised him, and eventually, how they'd had to move. 

      "He visited us every few months for a while," Angel said. I didn't miss her use of the word us. Her and the mysterious woman from the picture frames. "When you had just been born. But then the drive got harder and the visits got shorter, and then they stopped entirely. I spoke to him every week, but . . . it wasn't the same anymore."

       "Why didn't he want you to meet me?"

       Angel looked away. She always looked away. "It was my idea. Knowing me puts you in danger. I couldn't."

      "So, what? You don't care anymore?"

     A half-smile. "Why do you think I'm teaching you to defend yourself?"

     "Couldn't you have done that sooner?"

     "Monroe." Angel's voice was soft. "You're still a child."

     "I'm sixteen!" 

      Angel only shook her head. She took my hand in hers, her touch warm and tender, and she squeezed my knuckles. Her head tilted, amber eyes glinting by the firelight. "Still too young, mia cara."

     Now, it had been almost a year. I asked Angel if I could try boxing, fighting against other people. Testing my skills. She agreed. We'd gone grocery shopping, running in the park and even visited university campuses. 

     But it was on that day, my knuckles bandaged, my blood pulsing with adrenaline, that she chose to open up to me. Angel had taken out the sky-blue convertible she kept in the farmhouse, and after she slid her keys into the ignition, she ran her fingers lovingly over the leather steering wheel.

     "My wife loved this car," she said. The past tense told me I was right―the blue-eyed woman was dead. Had been dead for a while. "She was beautiful."

     "I know," I said quietly. "I've seen her pictures."

     Angel's eyes took on a faraway look, a mist that told me she was remembering something. "She died last year. I kissed her goodnight and the next morning . . . gone."

    I touched Angel's shoulder. I didn't know what to say. It never gets easier, does it? 

    "We'd spent over fifty years together. And all of a sudden . . . I always thought I'd be first. I was always the more reckless one, or I liked to think I was. Our first date even involved a museum heist. She was a talented artist, you know." The sunlight shimmered in Angel's eyes. Her voice broke. "It should have been me."

     I placed my hand on Angel's. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

     Angel's eyes fell on me. "She would have loved you. You . . . probably would have reminded her of me, when I was young and cocky and ready to take on the world. When we get back, remind me that I have something for you."

     I WON THE BOXING MATCH.

     Won it so well, in fact, that they offered to pay me to come back. It had only been a junior-level competition―a stroke of luck we'd even come on a day where people were competing at all. But I took down three opponents in record time, and from the stands, Angel smiled at me. Proud.

     I forgot to remind her about whatever she had for me until the next day. By then, it was mid-afternoon. Heat waves swam in my vision as Angel guided me to the farmhouse.

    "The convertible?" I asked.

    "No. Behind it."

    A motorcycle. Shiny and sleek, an older vintage model. "Does it still run?" I asked, hardly daring to believe it.

    "Of course," said Angel. "She's the second love of my life. I take care of her."

    I didn't breathe.

    "She's yours now," Angel added. "In case that wasn't clear."

    "I can't."

    Angel laid her hand on my shoulder. Kissed my forehead. "She's perfect for you."

    And then something in me broke, something irretrievable. The part of me that had been clinging on to the death of my parents, holding back the tide. I cried now, and I couldn't stop it. In the shadow of the farmhouse, with Angel holding me, I cried. She didn't say anything, only pressed her lips to my hair. Keeping me tucked against her chest. An anchor, holding me as I drowned. I cried until I couldn't anymore―for my parents, for their accident, for everything I'd done and everything I hadn't.

    "I understand," Angel murmured. "I understand."

    I didn't feel better, or healed, or whatever fairytale-movie-bullshit I was supposed to feel after a breakdown. Maybe I never would. Maybe that was the nature of grief. A wound that never closed―and yet, somehow, you got used to it.

    Later that day, I tested out the motorcycle in the field, running circles over the flat grass until the engines smoked and the seat grew unbearably hot in the midday sun. I practiced using the brakes, practiced turning sharply. It took me months, but I got the hang of it with Angel's help. By high school standards, I was now finishing eleventh grade. Angel made me take my license, urging me to go faster. Go!  she'd shout, and in the wake of the motorcycle the wind would blow the grass sharply back, tossing her hair wildly around her face. 

     But whenever the world started to blur―a mass of shapes and colours and sky―I thought of my parents. Thought of the impact of their crash.

    I wondered if it'd hurt. If they'd felt any pain.

   That thought stopped me until it didn't anymore. One morning, I found myself on a stretch of empty road. Suddenly, fast just wasn't fast enough. I accelerated the gas pedal until I felt like I was at the speed of light―until, for the first time in my life since my parents' death, I felt free. I felt okay.

   When I arrived back home, I dizzily unclipped my helmet and staggered off the bike, leaning it down in the grass.

    "Angel!" I shouted. "Angel, guess what I did!"

    I crashed into the cottage door―into what was my home now. The mid-morning sun had risen high, and by now, I would have expected Angel to be preparing something on the stove. Her famous pasta or chicken or minestrone. But I didn't hear the clatter of cutlery or the sizzle of water.

    "Angel?"

    Strangely enough, I saw a pot filled with water on the counter. The stove glowed red, a sign that it had been turned on.

    "Angel!" I called out. "Are you trying to start a fire? You forgot to turn off the―"

    I saw one tanned, slender hand from around the corner of the kitchen island. On the floor.

    Every thought emptied out of my head. And then came the chorus: No, please, no. I held myself still, for longer than I should have, as if the hand would disappear and I'd hear Angel from behind me, calling me a schunata for not closing the heat.

    Insects chirped in the tall grass outside. Warm wind rustled through the windows.

    I fell to my knees, reaching for Angel, and called 9-1-1. 

    THE NURSE'S EYES WERE soft, caring. "Her health is failing her, dear. There's nothing you could have done."

    "I―if I had been there―"

    "Honey, you can't blame this on yourself. Elderly patients―especially spirited ones, like your grandmother―like to pretend they're doing okay, until the very last moment. She's going to need 24/7 care. We can place her in a nursing home, if you'd like."

     "Is that the only option?"

    "Listen, sweetheart." For the first time, the nurse seemed completely and utterly exhausted. "Insurance won't cover private in-home care. Angel herself doesn't want it, either. She's going to stay at Sunny Homes, and you can come visit her whenever you like. Social Services have already been called."

     "What? No! You can't―"

     "Mia cara,"  said Angel, from within the room. The nurse stepped aside, nodding at me sympathetically before leaving. "Come here."

     Angel looked so . . . fragile. An IV pierced her inner wrist. With a thin hospital gown and tubes beneath her nose, she really did look old. I hated it. This wasn't my Angel, who'd knocked me on my ass more times than I could count. Who'd given me the skills to win boxing tournament after boxing tournament. Who'd watched me on my motorcycle with more pride than she'd ever care to admit.

     "It's for the best."

     "How can you say that?" I said. So quietly I could barely hear myself. "I can pay for it, I can―"

     "I won't spend the rest of my money on that," said Angel. "I have everything I need right here." And she laced her fingers into mine. 

    I squeezed her hand. "I want to keep living with you. I'm not ready―I'm not ready―"

   "You are, tesora della nonna. It's time for you to go back home."

   "It's not home anymore," I whispered. Tears slipped out at last. "You are."

    But she wouldn't have it any other way. It had to be a nursing home―she didn't want to be a burden any longer. Didn't want to waste whatever money she had on herself, on her final months alive. I couldn't understand. Didn't even want to. 

    The next boxing tournament, I went back alone. The state was going to place Angel in a standard nursing home, with piss-yellow walls and dull fluorescent lights. If Angel couldn't afford in-home care, then the least I could do was pay for her to have a decent nursing home. Somewhere she'd be comfortable, somewhere she'd have freedom. I didn't know how, especially not now that I was moving back to my hometown, but I'd find a way.

    Before the boxing match, I approached one of the shadiest betters.

   "Where's your grandma?" he asked.

  "Not here anymore," I said.

   He must have taken it literally, thinking she had passed, because his smile turned oily. As if Angel had been the only thing holding him back from offering me something better. 

   "Boy," he said. "Do I have a deal for you. Do you happen to know anything about the Dark Web?"

***

A sad chapter. The hardest part to write about was Cade.

From the moon and back,
Sarai