The Crescent

Chapter 35

Zacari and Javier found Allison and Zacari's father panicked in the foyer. Allison was smoothing her hair over and over into its perfect shape and Zacari's father's hands were clasped behind his head as he paced the length of the front desk. Zacari peered out the windows. The sun painted wide brush strokes of early morning through the trees. They'd been gone all night.

Allison squawked at their arrival and stormed over to them. She pulled Javier into a hug and then Zacari, smashing Lela's stiff frame in between them. Over her shoulder, Zacari watched her father's shoulder droop in relief.

"Christ," he said. He let out a deep sigh and unclasped his hands.

"Thank goodness," Allison cried. "We've been worried sick! Javier, your mother's been calling non-stop, you call her immediately and let her know you're alright." She narrowed her eyes. "We couldn't find either of you anywhere. Where have you been?"

"In the morgue," Javier said. "Developing pictures."

"Don't lie," Allison scolded. "The doors have been jammed shut since yesterday."

"It's the truth!" Javier glanced over at Zacari. Everyone's eyes bored into for an explanation. Her mouth went dry.

"Zacari," her father said slowly. His voice was dangerously quiet. He eyed the slice on Zacari's calf, that she'd almost forgotten about. "Where were you?"

Zacari eyed her father tentatively. "We aren't lying. We were in the morgue."

She braced for his rebuke. She wasn't entirely certain she didn't deserve it. Instead, he did something else. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. For a beat she was taken aback, but then relented and pressed her cheek into the soft cloth of his shirt. The memory of them watching Hairspray together was sudden and vivid, and Zacari squeezed her eyes shut to savor it.

"Okay. I believe you. But don't ever scare me like that again," he said. He cleared his throat: "And...I'm sorry."

"For what?" she mumbled. There was much to be sorry for, but right now Zacari couldn't pinpoint a single thing.

"I haven't been the best dad. I know that." He paused. "I was ashamed when I got out of prison, and I didn't come around because I wanted to get my shit together. But I want to be there for you. I still don't have my shit together, but that doesn't matter. I get that."

"You don't have to be perfect," Zacari said, her eyes wet. "I just want you to try."

He pulled her back and smoothed out a stray curl against her forehead.

"I will."

Will, she thought.

"Dad, there's someone who needs our help."

He and Allison listened as Zacari and Javier explained Will and Baker in its entirety, their voices bouncing off the walls of the foyer. When words began to fail her, Zacari held the camera close to her, felt the kindness of Will there, and the words tumbled out of her easily.

As they neared a conclusion, Javier stretched out the delicate strips of film. They were fogged and smeared, but for Zacari, the images could not be clearer. The final picture on the strip was Will frosted over with death in the hardly-grave, the familiar surroundings of her dream. There were shots of his Chippewa Chelsea boots pidgin-toed between the mounds of bodies in the morgue, flashes of desperate chaos. Time unwound to narrowed shots of hallways and doorways, Will's descent into the hospital.

And finally, the first picture taken on his camera, a spectacled man in a bathrobe with Will's nose and a kind-eyed woman wrapped around him with Will's smile.

Zacari gently touched their faces.

Allison and Zacari's father exchanged a glance. Allison shrugged. "I believe them."

"Zacari knows where he's buried," Javier said, taking hold of her hand. "She can show you."