Page 42

42

Eva

Barcelona is like a city that got drunk on the beach: loose, sprawling and bleached by the sun. It smells of sangria. The air buzzes like a Spanish guitar.

I hop into a cab and head straight to La Sagrada Família.

As I’m driven through the rowdy streets, I question whether Jonathan would have continued to Barcelona without me. The city definitely doesn’t seem his style, but it’s the only lead I have.

La Sagrada Família is what would happen if a church went to a rave. If there is a God, I hope he’s like this. This God is fun, all Day-Glo colors and stars and stilts. The stained glass windows turn the sunlight into rainbows.

The church is almost closing when I arrive. If I don’t find Jonathan soon, I’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’ll have to stake out the church. I’ll have to live here, and I’m not totally averse to that.

I pass through the crowds of tourists and worshippers and people who look lost. I try to keep my eyes from drifting up to the epic ceilings.

Somehow, I know he’s here. Call it the killer instinct. I can feel it in my bones. I just need to find the most pretentious place. I just need to look for the most well-dressed person here.

I smile when I see him, because he’s exactly where I thought he would be.

He’s kneeling on a bench in front of an altar of candles. They flicker in front of him like fireflies. My throat catches. I recognize the backs of his ears, his neck, the frames of his glasses.

The dizzying church spins as I walk toward him. I pass under an arch and into the quieter place where he’s waiting.

We’ve been drawn to each other from the beginning. Both of us felt it. Both of us still feel it. Both of us are broken people. That’s the truth, and the truth just feels different.

He senses me coming. I’m not even kidding.

He gets to his feet. Now that I know he killed Andrew, he transforms in my eyes, like a predator has slipped under his skin. I can see how attuned he is to everything around him, to me.

Hundreds of candles glint behind him as he turns toward me. What if he lit them all? A candle for every person he’s killed.

The candles scatter light across his cheeks as he smiles hopefully at me.

“That one.” He points at a candle. “I lit that one for you.” I’m flickering on a table surrounded by prayers. “It worked.” His smile grows limp, uneasy. “You’re here.”

“Praise God,” I say.

His eyes flick down. “Why are you here?”

“You mean, do I still want to kill you?”

I drop some coins into a wooden box, then light my own candle. He watches me set it on the altar, next to his candle for me.

I turn back to him. “It’s kind of fun not knowing, isn’t it?”

He laughs in surprise. It echoes through the chapel.