The ocean crashes against the shores of Baker Beach and Gio flops into the sand.

“You want to bring it all back with you?” I nudge him with the tip of my shoe.

“I don’t care,” he says, a big grin on his face. “That hike was killer.”

“That was the downhill portion.”

“Don’t remind me.”

I take a big breath in and look out over the waves.

California. Sunny, dreamy California, where the weather is usually nice and the only thing we have to worry about are earthquakes. And mudslides. Those things are a small price to pay.

We live in California now, and everything before this seems like more of a dream than this beach.

At least, it did until this morning, when we found a package in the post office box we use. It’s hidden in the suburbs, nowhere near our actual address.

The package was from Gio’s father.

Inside was a silver necklace for me and a watch for Gio, with a note that said Congratulations on your marriage. May we celebrate together one day.

I laughed so hard I cried. It almost got embarrassing, right there in the post office, with a bunch of old ladies checking their mail and giving us the most serious side-eye you’ve ever seen in your life.

Gio didn’t laugh.

“We should go back,” he’d said, and put the watch on.

“Gio. He tried to have me killed.” I let the necklace dangle from my fingers. It was a pretty thing, light and delicate, and honestly I’d have chosen it for myself. It irritated me, a little, that Gio’s father could choose something so....effectively. Then again, Gio is his son. Maybe it’s a family skill.

“He clearly regrets the error of his ways.”

“You think he can make it up to me with a necklace?”

He’d shrugged one shoulder, and I saw the pain slip through the mask of his expression. Gio misses his family. He misses them like you’d miss a limb. Every Wednesday is an exercise in distraction, because even after all this time, he still thinks he should be going to the family dinner.

Oh, for the love of god, I probably could forgive the man. I’d need to spend a little more time putting myself in his shoes, but it could happen. Part of me, stupidly, wants to go to one of those family dinners. And even though he tried to have his own son come after me, I can admire the tenacity. He really wanted to wipe us from the earth.

He failed.

Which is the only reason in the end that I can even think about what forgiveness would look like.

It doesn’t matter for now. It’s the kind of pipe dream we can’t entertain for the moment.

Still, I can’t rule it out.

Maybe that makes me a sucker.

“I’m going to lay here.” Gio throws an arm over his face. He’s going to be covered in sand, and I tense at the thought of having to sweep all of it up. Relax, I remind myself. We’re both going to be covered in sand, and none of it is going to matter at all, next to being alive.

“I’m going to walk.”

“Don’t go far.” Gio pushes himself up on one elbow, face tilted for a kiss. I bend over, awkwardly, and kiss him. It’s more chaste than either of us would like, but I am not going to have sex with him on a public beach.

Not today, anyway.

I kick off my shoes, arranging them next to where he lies laughing on the sand, and head for the water.

It’s cold. Cold as fuck. And it feels wonderful. The ocean is like nothing I’ve ever felt. It’s not like the lake. I know—it has salt. But salt doesn’t explain the vastly different character of this body of water.

I go slowly down the beach, the sand swirling between my toes and pulling out with the waves. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I thought I felt it buzzing while we were hiking, but I didn’t want to stop to answer stupid messages.

The one on the screen is from Portia.

How’s Cali?

That’s not stupid. I love her. She saved my life. And she still won’t tell me where she learned all of that stuff. I don’t need her to protect me now, and yet…

Someday.

She’ll tell me someday.

Warm and sunny.

So jealous.

It’s December and the wind in Chicago wipes away every trace of sultry summer heat. It cuts. I miss a lot of things about the city, but not that.

Come visit!

In the spring? So much studying…

I’ve asked Portia to visit a few times, and she always has a reason not to. I don’t think she’s blowing me off, truly. I think she knows that there will always be that hesitation when we invite someone from the city. Gio won’t even tell his brothers and sisters—the ones who have found a way to reach out, anyway—what city we live in. Keep secret, keep safe.

I should make that into a sampler for our apartment.

I’ll hold you to it.

I put my phone back in my pocket.

It buzzes again.

I pull it out with a grin, thinking Portia’s got more to say, but this text is different.

This text is from a number I’d know anywhere, even if it’s not saved in my phone and never will be, for safety’s sake.

Still free?

It’s a question we’ve always been asking each other. Always.

Still free. What about you?

Free as a fucking bird. When are you coming to Europe?

It’s going to be a while. Husband. You know.

Doesn’t sound free :D

Stop…

I know. You love him. It’s gross.

Can you talk?

Not now. Just wanted to see how you were. You’re probably at some nude beach.

Only a regular beach. Toes in the ocean.

I can see the ocean, too. LU

LU

I put my phone back in my pocket.

I could tell him right now.

Gio’s back on the beach, one arm under his head, the other over his eyes. He’s totally at peace.

No, not now.

We’ve bought ourselves plenty of time to unspool our secrets. I know he has more to tell.

And me?

I have one.

She’s my twin sister, and she lives in France.

Gio was wrong, back at that house in Torch Lake. It’s not an impossible task to kill the last Ricci. But the last Ricci isn’t me. It’s Angela.

She’s my sister, by any name.

“Sia,” Gio calls, his voice swept to my ears on the wind. “Come back, wife.”

“Always.” I shout it loud enough for him to hear, and then go to him. He’s my husband. He’s the rest of my life.

We have so much time.

My missing foot hurts like a bitch.

You’ve probably heard of phantom pain, and I’ll tell you right now—you’re picturing it wrong. It’s not nebulous, an aching vapor in roughly the size and shape of the limb you’ve lost—in my case, my left leg, starting just below the knee.

There is no shin. There is no foot. There are no toes.

They were irreparably mangled at the base of a mountain in Afghanistan, and it’s almost definitely my fault.