XXV ONE LAST RAY （ELLE）

August's pocket square.

I forgot I still had this.

I've been sorting through my things. He left me in such a tizzy that I've less unpacked and more just lived out of boxes, with stuff flung everywhere and falling out of the cardboard.

August's pocket square from weeks ago was one of those things.

I found it when I went digging around for one of my older sketchbooks, hoping to recover some of my ancient ideas from high school. No matter what happens to Little Key, I'd like to round out Kiki's friends with an owl named Gruffykins before I try to do something with these characters instead of just flailing around.

The pocket square goes tumbling to the floor.

Just like that, I'm demolished all over again.

Yes, it's been a few days.

Brutally long days where I've dehydrated myself crying, now and then checking my phone and hoping.

But of course there's nothing from the real Gruffykins.

I won't mortify myself by texting him first.

I'm so not begging.

I can only be so bold before I get the message, and he made his message loud and clear.

I feel stupid, really.

One moment I'll be fine; the next I'll try to force a smile because it's what I always do. I'll remember how August was one of the only people who could tell when it wasn't real.

He cared enough to notice, and that breaks me again.

Usually, the tears don't stop until the migraine hits. Then I just hide in my room, pressing a cold cloth to my face and sulking until I feel like Ophelia, wasting away.

I pick up the little silk square, running my thumb over it.

My mouth tries to do that quivery pucker that warns more tears are imminent.

God, I'm confused.

He's a walking contradiction.

The man shut me out, let me in, pulled me close, pushed me away, until I think even he didn't know what he wanted, so there was no hope for me.

But if he doesn't want me, that's the end of it.

I'll just have to let it hurt until it doesn't, and then eventually I'll—

Ugh.

One day, I'll fall out of love with August Marshall.

That shouldn't feel so soul crushing.

But real-life love stories don't work like they do in movies.

I set the pocket square aside and go back to rummaging around in the box.

When I hear the doorbell ring, I don't think much of it. Probably just a delivery person wanting Gran to sign for one of her special-order heirloom seed packets or something similar.

So I'm surprised when I hear the door creak open, followed by a familiar voice.

My head jerks up. My stomach drops.

Is that . . . ?

"Ellie?" Grandma calls up. "You have company."

I straighten up, dust off my clothes, then pad out into the hall and peer over the banister. Clara Marshall looks up at me with a smile, holding up my fuzzy slippers.

She's as stylish as ever in a blue-fringed drape over a shimmery white silk top, loose, embroidered chiffon ivory pants, and slim blue strappy heels.

"I washed these for you, Elle," she says warmly. "I thought you'd need them back."

I could burst into tears at the sight of her.

Despite everything, I still respect Clara Marshall so much, and it's good to just see her and know she's okay.

But it also stings that she's the one who's brought my slippers.

Not August.

I smile anyway and head downstairs, taking them gratefully.

"Thank you. How are you ..." I fumble awkwardly. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, you know how these things go," she deflects. There's something troubled behind her eyes. "I've been very busy. I've certainly missed your help."

"Oh—I'm so sorry, I just—you know, I thought after everything ..." I scuff my feet, looking down. "I thought I was sorta fired."

There's an awkward pause that Gran fills with a clap of her hands. "Well now! This is tea conversation."

I smile.

Clara hesitates. "I'm afraid I don't have much time ..."

"Nonsense. There's always time for tea." Gran taps Clara's arm lightly. "Do come with me. I'm so delighted to finally meet you, Miss Marshall. Elle talks about you nonstop."

"Grandma!" I hiss.

Clara gives me a patiently amused look and follows Gran inside.

"Well, I'm quite flattered, but I must say I can't stop talking about this wonderful young lady too. She's a darling—kind, lovely to be around, and such a help to me. Not to mention how brilliantly talented she is."

"Clara!"I gasp, going red up to my ears.

Oh my God, are the older women in my life all trying to kill me today?

Gran and Clara trade wickedly amused looks.

"My," Gran says mildly. "That's a lovely shade of pink on her, isn't it? Really complements her complexion."

"Absolutely," Clara answers. "She should wear that color more often."

Mortifying.

I glower at them both while they descend into casual chatter like they've known each other their whole lives. Clara compliments the vines and ferns that have practically taken over the house.

Gran enthusiastically explains how she cultivates outdoor flowering vines to thrive inside. It saves me from more embarrassment, at least, as I set my slippers aside and help Gran to put tea on.

It's jasmine today. The weather's getting a little warmer, and jasmine tea is always good in spring.

The atmosphere feels relaxed and light by the time we settle at the table in the atrium with our teacups.

Clara breaks off from exclaiming over the delicate lace of the table doilies and looks at me, smiling over a sip of her tea before setting the cup down.

"The truth is, Elle, I had an ulterior motive for coming here. Don't look so frightened—I'm not here to make things worse."

She doesn't have to say what things she means.

But if I think about August, I'm going to break.

She only shakes her head with another smile. "Actually, I'm here for me. I'm selfish enough to prevail on your support, if you wouldn't mind. You see ..." She looks uncomfortable. "The trial is in a few hours."

I frown, warming my hands on my teacup. "There shouldn't be a trial. Sorry, but you've basically surrendered and agreed to Marissa's demands. It's a civil case, not criminal. A settlement doesn't need a court date, does it?"

"Yes, well ..." She sighs heavily. "Marissa wants a spectacle. She wants it trotted out in front of a judge with all of us there—not you, no, but at least myself and my niece and nephew. A private settlement isn't enough. She wants a full court circus."

Gran scoffs. "How tacky. She wants to drive the final nail in. Make it as humiliating as possible."

"Apparently so. I've tried to be graceful, considering the situation, but this really is rather tasteless." Clara shakes her head. "Deb's very distraught. She has enough work on her plate. August, he's nowhere to be found—he's turned his phone off. I haven't seen him for days. He's likely run off to Taos or Ketchikan or some other far-flung place to find his perfect brooding nest."

Despite myself, I snicker.

Yeah, that's Gruffykins, all right.

"So you see," Clara finishes, "I'm on my own, without a friend in my corner. And if I'm about to go through with this, I would be eternally grateful for your company, Elle. That is, if you wouldn't mind coming."

I don't know if I can do that.

I don't know if I can stand there passively while this woman gives up her life's work, all for an idea that means so much to her and me. And all to this greedy mess of a woman who's only doing this because she needs to hurt someone to make her own pain better.

But I can't leave Clara to face hell alone.

I stare down into my tea. My reflection looks up at me, the tea trembling like it shares the nerves I'm trying not to show.

August won't be there, I tell myself.

I won't have to see him and hurt quietly in the courtroom while he looks anywhere but at me.

So I smile, lifting my head.

"Sure," I say, pushing my chair back. "Just let me get dressed."

Twenty minutes later, and I match with Clara.

I've picked out a bright-blue A-skirt in almost the same shade as her drape, with a short-sleeved white silk blouse and a small blue scarf at the neck to pair with it. It's fine for court attire—professional but bright. The wings of my eyeliner match, with their accent of pearl shimmer.

I kiss Gran on the way out after she turns down the invitation to join us, then ride with Clara to the courthouse in an Uber.

We're quiet in the car. Our nerves speak volumes.

She looks so anxious, the sorrow hovering over her like a cloak.

It still doesn't add up.

If she really meant that confession, she'd either be feeling guilt or regret. Maybe even shame.

She'd be carrying the weight of getting caught, of feeling awful for what she'd stolen across decades of cruel deception. And even if her emotions had the appropriate chagrin, she still wouldn't act like she's almost in mourning.

You only grieve something lost when it's really yours.

That's why this doesn't make any freaking sense.

What am I still missing?

The car drops us at the courthouse. It's not that busy, people streaming in and out, handling their own business or standing around with busy-looking lawyers.

I give Clara my arm to lean on for comfort as we check which courtroom we're assigned to; then we make our way through the halls to the wood-paneled room.

There's hardly anyone inside.

Just a few lawyers settled at tables on opposing sides. I see Marissa with her team, and Deb with the Little Key defense. Her eyes are red, but her face is cold and composed.

There's an empty chair waiting for Clara.

A few reporters scroll their phones in the seating area, looking either anxious or disinterested.

The judge is an older man, balding and with a monk's crown around the back of his head. The overhead lights reflect off the dark-brown skin of his skull and his narrow rimless glasses.

As we enter, the Little Key lawyers glance back at us. One lawyer catches the judge's eye and nods. He straightens, shuffling through some pages on his desk.

"Everyone's here?" the judge asks, his voice echoing in the solemn chamber.

I pat Clara's hand and give her a gentle nudge. She looks petrified, but I know she'll get through this, no matter what happens.

She's tied with Gran as the strongest woman I've ever met.

"I'm here if you need me," I whisper.

"I know. Thank you, dear."

She pulls away and drifts to her seat, settling in next to Deb.

I claim a place in the row behind her, making sure to stay as close as I can.

Marissa looks so smug I wonder if she's drunk again.

An ugly thought inside me says she didn't deserve the kindness August showed her that night he helped her home. But even I can't help but hurt for her too.

This crusade of hers is horribly misguided. I know she's trying to take from Clara to make up for what she's lost.

Pain makes us do crazy things.

Sometimes it makes us merciless.

"All present, Your Honor," the lawyer on our side says.

The judge bangs his gavel once, quick and perfunctory.

"Calling to order, Judge Harris presiding. We're here for the case of Sullivan v. Marshall, regarding intellectual property rights for creative copyright over a series of children's book characters and all associated trademarked merchandise, branding, and properties." He frowns at the pages. "It looks like you've reached an agreement regarding a settlement. That means we can dismiss this case in favor of the plaintiff, with the defendant surrendering all rights voluntarily. So, why are we here again?"

Marissa opens her mouth, but she doesn't get to finish.

The courtroom door slams open.

"Because," August says, his voice projecting authority and determination, all dark fire. He steps inside with a slim older woman behind him, still pretty with her long greying red hair in a braid and a matching grey dress. "The defendant's confession was forced under duress, and the entire premise of this case is a lie."