Page 44 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Blue

T he street was quiet as Faron pulled up in front of Julia’s Place. The silence felt eerie—like the world was holding its breath.

I hadn’t been back since the shooting. Since everything.

I sat in the passenger seat and stared at the mural on the wall. Kat’s brushstrokes had only grown more vibrant—sunlight filtered through painted branches, casting golden rays on the kids below. A little girl with curly hair handed out books from a bench.

Julia.

Faron got out and opened my door, offering his hand.

“I can walk,” I said.

“I know,” he said softly. “But you don’t have to.”

I took his hand.

The building still smelled like sawdust and wet paint. Laughter echoed from somewhere in the back—Kat and Emery trying to wrangle a group of boys who were apparently attempting to build a throne from folding chairs.

As soon as the kids saw me, they froze.

Then one of them—a wiry boy with a stitched eyebrow I’d patched up myself—grinned wide. “She’s back!”

The shout echoed like a rallying cry. Kids came running.

I stood there, crying and laughing at the same time, with children clinging to my arms and Faron behind me, unmoving and strong.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Emery said, arms folded.

“I’ll rest,” I said through a shaky grin, “when the painting’s done.”