Page 79 of Glass

“No. No, no, shewouldn’t—,”

He stops. Just… stops. And he turns, a small box in his hand.

“She took them,” he says quietly. And the pain in his voice… I don’t know how to respond to that. Instead, I step forward, looking down at what he’s holding. When he looks up at me, his eyes are wet. “Our wedding rings. Your mothers, and mine.”

There’s a roaring in my ears. “Angelica?”

My father nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the empty box. “I… I should have known, really.”

His voice breaks, and I don’t know what to do.

“Dad,” I whisper, “I’m sorry. But – but we can find them. Get them back.”

Get Anastasia back.

My dad lifts a hand to his chest, massaging it. He looks pale, dazed. “Yes. We’ll – we’ll do that.”

He takes a step. Another step.

“Dad?” I ask warily. He looks… he doesn’t lookright.

And I watch in growing horror as my father, my strong, tall father,falls, like a puppet with its strings cut.

He hits the floor too quickly for me to catch him.

I think I cry out. A noise tears from my throat, one I’ve never made before.

And then Rafe and Kit arethere, talking rapidly, begging, as I pull my dad into my arms. Pressing shaking fingers against his pulse. But there’s nothing there, nothing to try and save, even as Rafe shouts into the phone, screaming at the emergency services with increasing desperation.

His lips are blue.

Why are his lips blue?

The lights are blue too.

They dance across the wall as they finally arrive, far too late to do anything at all.

“Silas.” Kit grips my shoulder, my little brother. He squeezes gently. “Silas. You need to let him go now. It’s alright.”

His voice breaks.

That’s not right. He shouldn’t be comforting me. It needs to be the other way around.

They don’t… they don’t have anyone else now.

And then I realize, as Rafe’s voice echoes from around me. “Where’s Angelica? Anastasia?”

They don’t know what’s happened.

If they hadn’t done this… if Anastasia hadtrustedme, then it wouldn’t have happened at all.

My father would not have died from a broken heart.

My brothers would not be orphans.

And maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone.

Slowly, the grief hardens. Solidifies, into anger. Icy, cold anger. And I open my arms to it, embrace the numbness that steals over me as the days turn into weeks, then months. Years.