But there’s a glimmer in Nathan’s face. Something I’ve seen before, so many years ago, when he asked me to go east with him. Just a flicker, but it’s there, still. Fierce, naked hope.
My cheeks burn. Even after all this time, even after everything, he still has hope for us. And I—
I feel it. Fluttering from deep inside my chest, as though waking up from a deep slumber. Hope. I’ve squashed it down for the last four years, shoved all thoughts of being independent to the side, told myself I’m being stupid, or selfish, or unrealistic. Unrealistic—that’s always been my mantra, passed down from Ma and my aunties. “Don’t be unrealistic,” they’d say. They had to be pragmatic all their lives; there was no room for dreams or idealism. Just look at Fourth Aunt, Ma would say. She chased her dreams all the way from Indonesia to Los Angeles, and look where it got her. This is what happens when you’re unrealistic, when you let the dream take over.
But everything that’s happened the past few days has been unreal. If ever there was a time to use the word, it’s now. Ma pretending to be me online, that’s pretty fucking unreal. Me accidentally killing my date. I mean, how much more unreal can it get? And all the domino pieces falling over one by one—the body getting shipped here, the body ending up on the altar—none of it has been anywhere near realistic. Why am I still trying to play by realistic rules?
My back straightens, my neck lengthens, and I stare down at Sheriff McConnell and see him for what he truly is: a fish out of water, completely at a loss as to what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened on this island, and he’s torn between the sudden rush of power and a whole ocean of fear. I pounce on that fear.
“My name is Meddelin Chan, and I’m an attorney. What have you charged my client with?” My voice comes out like an iron fist, thudding onto the desk.
There’s a beat of silence, and then Sheriff McConnell scrambles forward, placing his elbows on the desk before second-guessing himself and sitting back and folding his hands on his lap. “Ahem, yes, his attorney, eh? You got here fast.” He pauses. “Hang on, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you around . . .”
“Yeah, I’ve been here awhile, taking care of some papers.”
Nathan gives a small shake of the head, but I don’t need him to guide me. I won’t have this joke of a cop derail me. I lean forward, place my hands on the desk, and say the words ever so slowly.
“What. Have. You. Charged. My client. With?” Never mind thudding, my heart is kicking. I swear it’s grown legs and is sprinting, crashing over and over into my rib cage. Any moment now, it’s going to kick its way right out of my chest, Alien-style. But somehow, my face remains straight, my gaze unwavering, locked on Sheriff McConnell.
He shifts his weight again, and unfolds and refolds his hands. “Right, yes. Well. There’s been a murder.”
“What have you charged my client with?”
His gaze flits away like a spooked butterfly before coming back to rest on my face. “Well, that is to say, er—”
“If you haven’t charged him with anything, then you can’t keep him locked up. I’m taking him out of here.”
“Well, then I charge him with murder!”
Shit, shit, shit. Somehow, I stare him down, even though everything inside me is screaming Noooo, you’ve done it now, you’ve gone and made everything worse! “For the murder of whom?”
The sheriff gives a little shake of his head, reminding me of a horse. “Of the body. Down there, at the altar.”
“So you haven’t identified the body?”
“Well, no, of course not, that’ll come later—”
“What was the cause of death?”
“I don’t—”
“Time of death?”
“Well, I mean to say—”
“Found a weapon on my client, did you?”
“Not yet—”
“So you don’t have a cause or time of death, but you’ve arrested my client. On what grounds?” Seriously, who am I right now? It’s as though Big Aunt has taken over my consciousness and is just bulldozing over everything, and holy smokes, it’s actually working. Sheriff McConnell is sweating as if he’s just run a marathon in the dead of summer. I actually feel kind of sorry for him. “Sheriff, I think we both know you’re in over your head. Have you even ordered the body to be brought in out of the rain?”
He stares at me balefully. “Protocol states that . . .” His voice trails off. It’s obvious he has no idea what protocol states when there’s a mysterious body and a rainstorm. On the one hand, he should leave crime scenes as undisturbed as he can. On the other hand, the rainstorm might destroy a lot of evidence.