The Darkest Joy Read Free

overshadowed by the infamous killings that seem to define me now.
    Juilliard could suck it, there would be another . . . golden girl. Or guy. I fold my arms and Lacey knows when she’s lost. Juilliard can’t have me now . . . because—I can’t have them. Music and the memories of my family are inexplicably linked. It’s what I deserve, anyway. Why did I get to live when none of them did? I should have been here. Should have been with them.
    “Okay,” she says in a quiet voice. “But you promise me . . . Promise me that you’ll come back.”
    Tears of anger masking my sadness run down my face. “I can’t, Lace. I can’t.” How can I play piano when they can’t listen? How can I live here again when every space I breathe in has their absence in it? There would never be enough oxygen for me.
    “Miss Starr,” Marshal Clearwater interrupts us.
    I clear my throat, swiping at my wet face, which heats with embarrassment. “Yes,” I say.
    He pauses, those dark eyes probing my own. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
    I nod, expecting more . . . then he says the first positive thing I’ve heard, surprising me. “And good luck in Alaska.”
    My hands tighten around the small box from Aunt Milli and I give the first smile of this miserable day of memorial for my murdered family.
    “Thank you,” I say, the damp sea breeze lifting the hair at my neck.
    He stares at me a moment longer, looking as if he wants to say more. Then he walks away.
    Like everyone else.
    My hands slide into that box and wrap around the present inside.
    My flesh heats the solid brass key.
    I hang on to it like the anchor of comfort it is.
    It’s hold on or sink.

ONE

May
Homer, Alaska
    I cover my nose then cough. A plume of dust rises and I drop my hand.
    What a dump .
    I hear a horn beep and turn around. The taxi driver who gave me the ride from ERA, the local air carrier, waves.
    I give him the thumbs-up and he drives off. My eyes shift back to the run-down log cabin. I keep my eyes on the wide plank door as I climb the thick steps, the deep graining and knots in the wood, loved by age, mellowed to amber, greet me. I look down at the key in my hand, wrapping suddenly cold fingers around brass that’s stolen my warmth. I slide the gift from Milli into the surface lock and the tumblers slide and click apart. I push the heavy door inward and it opens with a whisper of sound.
    The interior is as dismal as I expect.
    Everywhere my eyes land is caked in dirt. Years of dust entomb every surface.
    It’d take an act of goddamned Congress to clean this place up.
    I sigh, trudge out to the cabin’s porch and carry in my suitcases one by one, four in all. I swipe the screen of my smartphone and see that it receives Internet.
    Amazing.
    Back on the porch, I scan the forty-acre spread, as open as it is achingly cloistered. The spruce trees scattered on the edge of a huge cliff accentuate the lonely frontier feel. Wild lupine shows green against grass that isn’t awake with the late spring of this northern latitude. Fireweed shoots emerge between patches of snow.
    I exhale sadly and haul the rest of my gear inside and survey the interior again.
    Yup, it’s still shitty.
    I set my phone on the kitchen table, disturbing the dust, and put my things on the floor. I move to a crooked cupboard and open it, then open the rest, one by one. I leave them standing open like gaping, toothless mouths.
    My eye catches something and I stand up straighter. In the vast nothingness of the lower kitchen cupboards I see a spot of color. I move closer.
    It’s a quilt. Large circles intertwine with one another, the patchwork reminiscent of the post-WWII era.
    I know what kind of quilt it is: wedding ring.
    My great-aunt Milli has slept beneath this. When she was younger than I am now.
    A tight burning sensation begins deep in my chest and I know better than to contain it. I let the silent, unstoppable tears come.
    The wildlife of my property doesn’t mind my