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D eliciously attired in his silk pajama bottoms and untied robe, Vincent led Marisol by the hand into the basement of the estate. He stopped her in front of a reinforced mouse cage. The rabid little creature she had last duct taped in a freezer went about its business running on a wheel.

“I have something that you need to do,” Vincent said.

“Give the rodent a name?” Marisol asked.

“No.” He turned the handle of the vault with the glowing blue window. Clouds rolled out of the open room of frozen conquistadors as liquid nitrogen met the air. Vincent entered the vault. Marisol followed him, brow knit with confusion.

Held by the cable wound tightly around him, Ruthven shivered in an empty glass tank. Vincent hadn’t frozen him yet. Vincent guided Marisol’s hand to a lever. “When you pull this, it will start the cryostasis process.”

“You don’t have to do this!” Ruthven interjected between chattering teeth. Actually, Vincent had to. Ruthven would tear up a traditional prison, and it wasn’t like he could face execution. His judgment would come in the future under Vincent’s watchful eye.

“I hope you had a good look at your eternity.” Vincent tipped his head toward the iced-over beef jerky in human form, the others. “Perhaps not an eternity, but it’s been 500 years. Could be 500 more.” In dark warrior-mode, steely and aloof, Vincent verged on cruel.

Marisol gripped the lever. “Every day, you should think of her.” Vengeance didn’t direct her hand, her love for Annie did. “I know I will.”

Ruthven spat, “Your friend was no saint. She sold me secrets just to keep her lab open. You’ll be cleaning up her little B’Lee mess long after I’m gone.”

“We always said, ‘People over ambition.’” That info stopped Ruthven’s shivering. Marisol added, “Whatever she did, she did it to help people.”

“You think I’m the only one you should worry about? More will come, and they won’t be as nice as I am!”

“They will reveal themselves in due time,” Vincent said. He gestured for Marisol to pull the lever.

Ruthven laughed. “Charlie says, ‘Hi.’”

“Do it,” Vincent ordered with a sneer.

“For Annie,” Marisol whispered before cranking the lever .

Ruthven howled, but the sizzling liquid nitrogen muted him in a microsecond. The process mummified his face, freezing it into a scream. Vincent welded the tank shut. There were four full tanks. Four that waited for the day their immortal lives would end.

On the other side of the vault, Vincent turned the handle close. Marisol watched the mouse gobble a pile of alfalfa pellets.

“She might need something rawer and meatier,” Vincent said, putting a hand on Marisol’s shoulder.

“The mouse is a she?” She nibbled at her lip. That really wasn’t the question she wanted to ask. She breathed and just went for it. “Who’s Charlie?”

“As far as I know? Nonsense.” He crossed his arms. Marisol studied his demeanor, searching for a tick or subtle smile—a clear sign of a truth or lie. But his attention seemed zoned out. She got nothing from her dark warrior.

She focused back on the mouse. “We should call her A.J. Figured we should honor her. It’s all we have left of Annie’s work. That and whatever she gave to Ruthven.”

“She gave only fragments of information. Ruthven happened to turn the shared half-formula into B’Lee. All the world knows that Ruthven dealt designer heroin. And as far as the lab attack is concerned, the media already ditched the gang retaliation story. They say Ruthven had it out for me. With what I gleaned, he only planned to steal some research to sell to the highest bidder, but he hadn’t expected to run into you two so late at night.”

“Annie is the most brilliant person I know. If this truth gets out, people will see Ruthven’s grimy little hands on her accomplishments.”

“No one will ever find out.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Can we build a better world with a lie?” She expected Vincent to answer with something sage that offered little comfort.

“It doesn’t have to be a lie. We can consult her files, her notes.” A glint flickered in his irises, like his internal switch flipped from warrior to lover.

Her worry unwound itself from her body. She playfully smacked him in the shoulder. “You took them!”

“I’d prefer to say, ‘Stored for safekeeping.’”

“We could make the serum. Give it to A.J. Maybe it could work like the Fountain. Maybe it could rev—”

Vincent winced. “I’ve learned not to hope too much.”

Marisol held his smooth hands in hers. She imagined both becoming wrinkled and liver spotted. And perfect. “But we can hope a little bit.”

He kissed the inside of her wrist. “A little bit is okay.”

“How can I not hope with you, my saint? ”

His eyes lit up. Actually lit up like his suit. “Saint? Isn’t that what they call me?”

“It’s what I call you.”

“And you? My spirit?” He held out her necklace and smoothed his thumb over her cross pendant, offering it back to her.

Marisol cupped her hand over his and closed his fingers around it. Her necklace belonged to him now. “Something like that.”

“You’ll need something more fitting to wear.” Reaching out his hands, the necklace dangling between his fingers, he closed his eyes in obvious mockery. “I can see it now. Something shining. Shimmering. Silver.”

Massive eye roll.

“A knight,” he added, opening his eyes.

She smiled with her mouth closed, holding in the stinging sensation of tears. Somehow, he always saw the real her—the fighter, the caregiver, the woman.

She curled her finger to direct him to come closer, so her lips met his. His arms hugged around her waist. Bam! Her knees buckled, and she swooned. Bent over her, he broke away from the kiss. “I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too, sidekick.”

He definitely was getting a spanking tonight.

Vincent’s private jet rolled to a stop on the tarmac. Even from the small window in the cabin, Marisol watched as paparazzi and reporters jogged in from behind the hangar. They circled around a parked town car, holding cameras and voice recorders in stiff anticipation.

Tobias stepped out of the car. Over the week, his stubble had grown into a lush beard. He wiggled his shoulders in his new charcoal suit jacket. But Marisol took one look at his tieless throat and shook her head. Tobias needed a tie, though he did look remarkably dapper without one.

Though Vincent offered her a new outfit for the occasion, Marisol insisted on wearing the navy sweater and the black trousers she wore during her first day of med school. That was when she met Annie because Park came right after Novotny during the white coat ceremony. Now, all that was missing was her white coat. And Annie, of course.

Outside, a photographer with an open mouth that could catch flies looked especially goofy waiting for the couple to deboard. Nikon Mouthbreather, Marisol named him.

Her mind drifted back to the ceremony when Annie had asked, “What do you think their names are?” Those were the first-ever words she spoke to Marisol. With a flick of her sloppy topknot, Annie pointed out the med students seated behind them, the R to Z last names.

“I don’t know,” Marisol answered .

Annie pointed at the guy with the polka-dotted bow tie. “Bowtie McTrustfund.”

Marisol chuckled softly. “The Ms are ahead of us.” The J-last names were in the midst of receiving white coats and applause.

“Mac’s his middle name then. What do you think her name is?” Annie nodded toward the woman with short, choppy hair.

“Pixie O’Cutiecutt,” Marisol said.

Annie snorted loud enough to earn a pointed “Sh!” from the M-section. “And her? Librarian Magoo.”

“I’m Marisol Novotny,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Annie Park,” Annie replied, shaking it. “What did you think my name was?”

The messy topknot screamed Sprout, but when My New Best Friend seemed more fitting, Marisol wanted to flatter her line neighbor. Annie’s thick-rimmed, cat-eye glasses combined with the updo had reminded Marisol of something retro and chic. All that was missing was a pearl necklace and a refined pose. “Holly.”

Annie shrugged. “I’d answer to that.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I thought you’d be a Joan.”

“Sh!” Librarian Magoo repeated.

They had behaved the rest of the ceremony.

The stairs unfolded from the plane. Vincent and Marisol descended them as camera bulbs flashed. Her face-swallowing sunglasses blocked the strobing onslaught. The sunglasses were also the most glamorous part of her outfit. Vincent, on the other hand, looked impeccable in a black suit and tie. Reporters shouted as Vincent and Marisol walked to the town car.

“Do you think your stocks will recover?”

“How does it feel to have a company targeted by the Bloodsucker terrorist group?”

“And to have your C.O.O. in cahoots with them?”

“Critics say you’re dating an essential worker to gain the public’s approval after the Ruthven fiasco. What do you say to them?”

Marisol slid into the protection of the car, but Vincent stopped at the passenger door and turned around. He tucked his sunglasses in his suit jacket. “I would tell those critics that I bought the weak shares back from my board to make my company mine again, so that we no longer sacrifice the good of all people for the greedy interests of the few. Our mission will always be for a more just world, and my love is proof of this goal.” He opened the door. “Excuse me, I have a memorial service to get to. Please respect the bereaved and keep your distance.”

Marisol moved over as Vincent entered the car.

His stained-glass gaze moved to Tobias, who snuck in from the other side. “Quinlan. ”

“Vinnie.” Tobias’s left eye twitched, and he shifted to show the badge at his hip. He didn’t even need it today when he was off duty.

The two men stared at each other until the pause became nine months pregnant. Tobias blinked, and they shook hands, gripping the other by the forearm. Maybe Vincent should add a sidecar to the motorcycle?

“How was your trip to Thailand?” Tobias asked.

“Not a whole lot of sightseeing. Spent most of our time on the beach.” Marisol and Vincent’s skin were far from sun-kissed. One of those statements was obviously a lie. “Did you hear W.H.O. reported that the missing virus was due to a computer error?” Marisol asked.

Tobias snorted. “And all this time they said it was stolen.”

Marisol dug into her shoulder bag and took out a wrapped box. “Before we forget.” She handed it to Tobias.

With a leery squint that bounced from her to Vincent, he took the box. He ripped open the tissue, and there it was—a tie. Silk, gray, and speckled with navy fleur-de-lis.

“You said I owed you one. Thought it might go well with taking your daughter out for coffee.”

Tobias’s smile faded as soon as it formed. He put the tie on. “I’m a kept man. ”

The town car drove them to a brownstone. A small group of people in black dress clothes gathered at the bottom steps in animated conversation.

Marisol practiced the Korean phrase Vincent taught her. How sad it is to lose a daughter.

“Eoyo.” Vincent lifted his slender fingers to accent the final syllable.

Marisol recited it awkwardly and slowly and definitely not with the right syllable accented. The group on the stairs parted, recognizing Vincent. The trio marched up the stairs and entered the home. Hot cooking oil and green onions wafted from inside. Marisol took a deep breath and crossed the threshold; Tobias and Vincent trailed close behind.

Boisterous people gathered on the patio out back and spilled into the hallway. In disheveled dark dress clothes, they ate, laughed, or played cards. To her right, the somber living room felt heavy with reverent silence.

Incense filled the room with sweet air. A gold-framed, poster-sized photo of Annie the day she had become a doctor stood propped on the table. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and her hair was down and smooth, not in her typical updo resembling a fern. Annie had hated the photo, claiming that the pink blouse and light gray suit jacket made her look like a real estate agent. But her smile and eyes said doctor. For that, Marisol loved the photo. Sorry Annie .

Wreaths of white chrysanthemums surrounded the table. Mourners had piled loose ones on the table under Annie’s photo.

Annie’s parents, eyes outlined with raw pink, stood at the side of the table. Her father wore a striped band on the arm of his suit. Marisol pursed her lips together to stop them from trembling. Vincent squeezed her hand. Tobias gave her a thumbs up. Together, they laid three chrysanthemums at the edge of the mantel, stepped back, and bowed. While tilting forward from her waist, gravity drew the tears from her eyes. Marisol sniffled and wiped her cheek before kneeling and touching her head to the floor, worshiping the ground at Annie’s feet. Marisol stifled a laugh at that notion before standing.

She faced Annie’s parents, handed them the other chrysanthemums, and bowed again. She repeated the phrase she practiced ending with eoyo.

“Thank you,” Annie’s mother said, and she continued in her language.

“We lost a daughter. You lost a friend. How sad for everyone to lose her,” Vincent translated.

So true. Annie longed to help people with her research, but the pinnacle of her work was a rabid mouse and her murderer, frozen in Vincent’s basement. There had to be something else. A better way. A better story.

After an hour, Annie’s parents joined them in the backyard. Pictures of Annie and Marisol hung from clotheslines. Her parents finally had moved everything out of her apartment and found the pictures of the vacations they took together and the nights out and in they had. The pictures stared at her as she picked at the soup, rice, and pickled tofu the family offered her. Tobias’s bowl never stayed full. He turned a glass of soju liquor but never turned down seconds of food, or thirds, or fourths, or…

Annie’s dad said something and smiled weakly. Vincent translated, “It’s hard to feel a broken heart with a full stomach.” Realizing her grief-suppressed appetite may come across as rude, Marisol shoveled the rest of the rice in her mouth, filling her cheeks like a hibernating rodent.

I can’t believe they’re watching you eat. I’ve come back from the dead to die of embarrassment again, she heard Annie say. Marisol choked on the last bit of rice.

“You’re a doctor too?” Annie’s mother asked.

Marisol dislodged rice stuck to the sides of her throat. “No. Nurse.”

“But you help sick people,” Annie’s mother continued. She pointed to the pictures and said something Marisol didn’t understand.

Vincent translated, “She said that food is medicine, but happy memories are like—baegsin jeobjong?—an inoculation. They make a heart stronger, so it cannot break from grief.”

Vincent drew an invisible line with two fingers across the table, a signal that Marisol ate enough food to be polite. Marisol hugged Annie’s parents and prepared to leave. As Tobias helped her into her jacket, Vincent said something to her parents.

One of Annie’s cousins, who overheard, asked Marisol, “I will find a way, or I will make one. Didn’t Hannibal say that?”

“I’m not sure.” To her, it would always be Vincent’s prayer, guiding him to end the curse. And now? She could accept Annie’s story as written... or make a new one that worked.

Marisol blurted, “I’ll build a clinic in her name!” Annie’s parents froze. “I have the money!” She caught Vincent in her gaze. “Or rather, know someone with money. Her clinic won’t just heal the sick or fix the broken, but inoculate them if you will, so people will be strong enough to help themselves.” She knew the perfect place for it on the Westside. Some real estate that freed up right after Israel Ramirez disappeared for good.

Vincent translated, and Annie’s parents nodded. Marisol continued, “Annie wanted to create a just world. In a just world, no one stands alone. In a just world, we will stand together.”

The trio left the funeral in the town car. Before it rounded the corner, Marisol peered back at the brownstone through the back window. Annie waved goodbye from the stairs. When Marisol blinked, she was gone.

Perhaps Annie’s spirit found its way to the afterlife.