WALKING DOWN NEUHAUS Street on the 892nd floor, one might have thought it was an ordinary upTower afternoon. Tourists lingered in front of various boutiques, debating whether to purchase a jeweled bangle or electric jacket. Well-dressed couples strolled to lunch, clutching their morning espressos in thin recycled cups. The holographic sky projected onto the ceilings overhead was a deep slate gray, in accordance with the sobriety of the occasion. The watery light illuminated the white stones of St. Monica’s Basilica, casting the structure in a chalky calcium pallor.
Atlas turned the corner and was instantly assaulted by a wall of noise. A crowd thronged around the church ten rows deep. They wailed ostentatiously, holding up signs that said WE MISS YOU, AVERY!
He shook his head in disgust and hurried away from it all, down a side street that edged along the church, and through an unmarked door that led directly into the back of the nave. He remembered it from his own confirmation five years ago.
The basilica was so crowded that every last spot was occupied, though Atlas didn’t mind. He hadn’t exactly planned on advertising his presence, had no desire to stroll up to the Fullers and give them a hug. He wasn’t sure whether they even knew that he’d escaped his minders—those ridiculous security thugs who’d stripped away his technology, forced him into an unmarked plane, and tried to make him disappear. Except Atlas was the one who’d ended up disappearing on them.
If they had given it any thought, the Fullers might have realized that he would be here today. Like hell would he miss Avery’s funeral. He wasn’t about to lose his chance to say good-bye to the love of his life.
He stayed in the back of the church, silent and unobtrusive, one eye alert in case any of his parents’ security guards were watching for him. It was easier this way. Not having to say hello to anyone, accept any condolences, deal with any of their lingering disgust over the fact that he had loved Avery. Just himself and his memories, and the howling monster of his grief.
Still, Atlas had to hand it to the Fullers. They sure could throw a funeral, with just as much fanfare and expense as they always threw a party.
It might as well have been opening night at the opera. White roses and carnations cascaded through the church, making a beautiful white carpet down the aisle, all the way to the altar. Hundreds of candles floated overhead. An angelic-looking boys’ choir sang behind the enormous carved organ.
None of it felt like Avery. She had been beautiful, Atlas thought fervently, but she wasn’t fragile or delicate. She was strong.
The pews were crowded with mourners in couture black dresses or tailored suits. They dripped with diamonds, dabbed at their eyes with monogrammed silk handkerchiefs. New York society had turned out in full force: Atlas saw the entire staff of Fuller Investments, and wasn’t that the governor of New York, with a bodyguard flanking him on either side? The fashion world was here too, a whole block of pews taken up by designers and boutique owners and bloggers, all the people who’d been such fanatic followers of Avery’s style. Which really was a laugh, given that her outfit choices were usually halfhearted and last minute.
Avery’s friends from school were in a pew near the front, their eyes wide with grief. Next to them, Atlas was surprised to see Max von Strauss. He felt a grudging stab of respect that Max had come here today, even though the last time Max had seen Avery, she was intertwined with Atlas.
Yes, they were all here, and all of them were whispering in not-so-quiet tones about Avery’s shocking demise.
The ironic part was, her death had accomplished exactly what Atlas assumed Avery had meant it to—it changed the narrative. She was no longer the disgusting girl who fell in love with the wrong boy, but a tragic victim of impossible love. That nasty article had been stripped from the i-Net, because after Avery had killed herself over it, to leave it up would have been in shockingly poor taste.
Atlas clenched his hands into fists at his sides. That was New York, he thought, fickle until the end. It just proved that he’d been right: If their parents had stood by them, instead of tearing them apart and splitting their family asunder, people would have eventually accepted their relationship and moved on.
At the front of the church, ensconced in a place of honor near his parents, Atlas saw Eris’s divorced parents, Caroline Dodd and Everett Radson. He wondered what they were thinking, behind the smooth, impassive masks of their faces. Before she died, Avery had apparently confessed to killing Eris, claiming that she accidentally pushed Eris off the roof. It was an admission that reopened old wounds and resurfaced old gossip. Especially when Avery then killed herself, setting fire to the Fullers’ apartment while she was still in it.
Atlas didn’t want to believe it of Avery, but he wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. He couldn’t help remembering that Avery had always been cagey around the subject of Eris’s death. Could it be true?
And what about the other piece of gossip, that Avery had confessed to another death, that of a lower-floor girl? It didn’t make sense. Atlas kept thinking that there was more to the story, that maybe Avery had been covering for someone—
No, he reminded himself. He’d come here to grieve, not to investigate.
Father Harold stepped up to the pulpit and began to deliver the opening prayer. The congregation bowed their heads.
“Eternal rest give to your servants, O Lord, and let your perpetual light shine upon us . . .” the priest intoned, but Atlas had stopped listening. He was looking out at the vast sea of people and wondering how many of them had known Avery, really known her. Not the delicate painted-on version of herself that she showed the world, but the vibrant, flesh-and-blood girl beneath.
He let the words of the service wash over him, overwhelmed by a million memories of Avery. All the summers they’d spent at the beach in Maine: running through the surf, sneaking chocolate bars from the kitchen and trying to eat them quickly, before they melted. The way the sun glinted in her hair, highlighting all the different shades of it. Her laugh, unexpectedly full-bodied and throaty. Her ferocity, her warmth, her indomitable spirit. The way it had felt to kiss her.
Atlas had never deserved her. This world hadn’t deserved her; and ultimately, the world was what killed her, with its cold narrow-mindedness. Atlas didn’t give two shits what they called him, but to tell Avery that she was vile and worthless, just because of who she loved—well, that wasn’t a world Atlas wanted any part of, either.
He refused to apologize for loving Avery. Honestly, he dared anyone with half a heart to meet her and not love her. Loving Avery was the greatest privilege the world had given him, and he couldn’t regret a single moment of it.
He prayed that Avery hadn’t regretted it, in the end.
“Our grief is like the shaking of the earth, like fires undying . . .” Father Harold was saying, and Atlas winced at the words of the prayer. He didn’t want to imagine Avery up there on the thousandth floor, alone, surrounded by a wall of flames.
He’d been in Laos when he heard, mere hours after it happened. That was how quickly this story had traveled: Because the death of the daughter of New York City’s mayor, of Pierson Fuller, the man who’d invented vertical living on a global scale, was international freaking news. Especially when that daughter burned down her family’s famous penthouse while she was still inside it.
The moment Atlas found out, he’d ditched his dad’s security team and boarded a flight back here, to return in time for the funeral.
The entire mind-numbing journey, Atlas felt consumed with guilt. It was all his fault. His fault that they were caught in the elevator, his fault that their parents had tried to make him disappear, his fault that he hadn’t figured out a better way to get Avery a message. He thought of the cupcakes he’d sent her, in those frantic few seconds, and felt sick. Had Avery not realized what he meant by them—that he would find a way to come for her, somehow, no matter what it took?
Atlas remembered the way her eyes had burned on him in the darkness of the elevator, when she turned to him and whispered, Don’t make promises you can’t guarantee you’ll keep.
He hadn’t been able to keep his promises, after all. He had failed her.
What a colossal idiot he’d been. Mr. Good Intentions, screwing things up yet again. He felt like someone from a Shakespearean tragedy, the ill-fated lovers torn apart, ruining his life through his own misguided mistakes.
Atlas had never guessed that Avery would do something like this, that she would leave a gaping, Avery-shaped hole in the universe. But then, she was the one who’d been left in New York, dealing with the vicious hate-soaked fallout of that night.
The priest sprinkled the casket with holy water. It was a massive, carved wooden casket, custom-built; and though Atlas hadn’t carried it, he knew it would be curiously empty, because it contained no Avery. They never found what remained of her body. All that survived were a few long strands of her fine-spun golden hair, buried in the ashes.
It might be better this way. At least now Atlas wouldn’t have to see her charred and mangled. He was free to remember Avery the way he wanted to, vibrant and laughing and acutely alive.
Father Harold began the concluding rites, and Atlas couldn’t breathe. He hated this service, and yet he didn’t want it to end, because when it ended Avery would truly be gone.
Finally the organ broke into up a recessional, the voices of the boys’ choir lifted in the Requiem Aeternam. The bereaved family made their way down the center aisle: Pierson and Elizabeth Fuller, Grandmother Fuller, a few scattered aunts and uncles. Atlas stepped farther into the shadows.
When Leda walked past, wearing a long-sleeved black knit dress and tights, Atlas couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t seem . . . afflicted enough. Her steps were brisk, her eyes as dark and darting as ever; and before Atlas could retreat any farther, those eyes had turned in his direction and were boring directly into his.
He should have known that of all people, Leda would spot him instantly.
He froze in terror, certain that Leda would make a scene. Instead she pursed her lips and jerked her head toward one of the blocked-off side chapels, as if to say, That way, then walked on through the main doors. Atlas felt he had no choice but to obey her summons.
He headed toward the chapel, where a pair of carved stone angels gazed down on him with inscrutable calm. Their wings were leathery instead of feathered—like a bat’s wings, rather than a bird’s. Maybe they weren’t angels at all. It felt oddly fitting.
Leda didn’t return until the church had long since emptied.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “I thought you were far away.”
“I was, but then I came back,” Atlas said haltingly, stating the obvious. But his brain wasn’t working properly. He couldn’t think through his grief.
Leda shifted impatiently, one ballet flat tapping against the cold marble floor. She seemed surprisingly irritated with him. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“If you thought I would miss the chance to say good-bye—” he began, but Leda interrupted him.
“There’s something you need to know, about what really happened to Avery.”