Waiting For A Star To Fall (Autumn Brody Book 2) (34 page)

And I can help people
.
Help people who've lost their lives in awful ways. Help people find closure.
If there was one thing about her courtroom ordeal she'd felt
good
about, it was seeing the families of Kearney's victims finding their own closure in his conviction. Nothing would ever ease the grief of losing their daughters, sisters, friends—Autumn wasn't oblivious in her optimism. Knowing that someone had been held accountable, though... it was a way forward with that grief.

Gazing out the window at a now darkened sky, the din of her family on the floor below faded away to white noise. Blossoming in the darkness was a small, greenish orb of light. She blinked hard once, twice—just to be sure. She was on powerful drugs, after all.

The light blinked back, hovering just beyond the pane of glass.

Louise's words came to mind, as vividly as if spoken aloud beside her: "
Autumn, it's never just once. They will not go away. Not until the gift passes to the next. Your choices are to run and risk weakness, risk losing control, or to create the terms of your relationship with the other side.
"

On her laptop, a song by The Jezabels came on, buoying her with hope. It was a song about choosing life over death—in endings, a new beginning. As always, music was her language.

"I need to heal," she told the orb firmly. "I can't help you yet. But if you come back in three weeks, I promise to listen."

A familiar stand-off: an unknown entity, intent on its mission, squared off against her battered but determined body.

Pandora’s ears twitched as she turned towards the window. Chattering and hesitant, she abandoned Autumn’s feet for the wide sill, a single tiny paw swatting at the intruder. The orb expanded and contracted in reply, as if drawing a deep breath and expelling it. Autumn kept her gaze fixed upon it, no longer afraid of the spectres that surrounded her.

This is my door. My rules.

She would balance this equation, these demands of the dead and her need to live. Her constant would see her through it.

Reaching across the bedside table, she palmed the black tourmaline stone, tracing its ridges and imperfections, grounding herself in the earth. Its cool surface comforted her as it seemed to vibrate beneath her fingertips.

It was only then that she turned from her visitor with an exhausted sigh, managing a smile as she noticed Andrew at her door. Her personal sentinel. His gaze drifted towards the cat scratching at the windowpane.

“You okay?”

“Objectively or subjectively?”

“Deflection, Ms. Brody,” he gently rebuked her, dangling a bag of brownies in front of her. “You want your treat or not?”

Slipping the tourmaline inside her pillowcase, she patted the bed. “I’d be better with you beside me.”

Andrew accepted this answer, joining her in bed. He absently toyed with her hair, tucking wild strands behind her ear. His silent acceptance—of her assurances, of the things he could not see but knew she could—was the missing piece. A sleepy declaration of love fell from her lips as she threaded her fingers through his. In that moment, she sensed something within her shrinking, folding upon itself in a delicate origami of secret wisdom, and knew that she would be okay.
Safe
.

With one last, sentient pulsing of light, the orb obediently drifted away into the night.

When I wrote
Change of Season
, it was meant to stand alone. It was a labour of love, a way to tell the story of several women I’ve known. It was a way for me to take my personal experiences with mental illness and violence and transform them into something healing and hopeful. For everyone who’s ever nudged me for a sequel, who’s fallen in love with these characters and their truths, this book is for you.  You are the ones who brought it to life, like Tinker Bell, by clapping your hands and believing.

This one’s also for Carrie, because without her igniting her own passion and inspiring me,  I wouldn’t have subjected myself to NaNoWriMo again.  Your endless cheerleading, ginger-licious distractions and friendship kept me from shelving this. Your insights are why it shines, like a star. Kismet and
mettā
, always.

For Jocelyn: I love deceiving you as you read. You can be the director’s commentary to my books
anytime
.

My husband Dan, whom I clearly love the
morstest
.  It’s a word. It’s our word. Maybe we can’t always live by a private plunge pool, but we’ll always have
us
. I’m still glad you made the terrible decision to propose.

To my furbabies, Gravity, Kali and Mimi, who
mostly
tolerate being ignored for hours...

For my family and friends, who love me even when I’m buried in revisions and forgetful about calls. The reason the bonds between these characters matter is because your love inspires them. 

In memory of Desiree, another light missing from the world. 

For July Talk, whose passion reawakened my own.

To the music: you remain, as always, my oxygen.  Thank you.

You can thank A.C.’s first grade teacher for the interest in writing fiction. It was her casual comment on a mandatory daily journal, wherein she noted A.C.’s flair for storytelling, that planted the notion of writing full-length novels, poetry and short stories in an already overactive mind.

A.C. went to work quickly, burning through reams of paper with an ever-scribbling pen before turning to computers at age 14. The boreal world rejoiced, and A.C.’s range of writing grew from simplistic children’s tales rooted in wish to horror stories, thrillers, and psychological studies of damaged men and women thrown together by circumstance.

Between insomnia-fueled writing sessions, Dillon is an ardent animal lover who debates politics, obsessively collects music, and endlessly re-watches one of the most underrated films of all time:
Empire Records
.

Twitter:
twitter.com/dillonac

Facebook:
facebook.com/dillonac

Official site/blog:
http://www.acdillon.com