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Journal Entry
Day 29.
Search and rescue called off.
Moskran authorities declare the case closed.
Publicly state they will no longer entertain inquiries.
Privately inform us their hands are tied.
In short: they don't think we're worth helping.
We're on our own now.
IT'S THE HEIGHT OF summer, and everything around me is green and lush. Everything is full of life, and the very air I breathe sings with it.
Even the distant sounds from the nearby park are an ode to a joyful existence.
A child giggles as his parent pushes his swing from behind. Picnic goers banter with each other. Couples laugh and yell as they race down Charles River in their kayaks.
These sounds are supposed to heal me.
But all I can think of is how the whole world thinks my brother is...dead.
"So this is where you've been hiding."
The voice is wonderfully familiar, and the words are a distraction I'm grateful for. I know it's no coincidence that Sarica finds me at the exact moment fears and doubts have made another demonic attempt to poison my heart.
But just so we're clear—-
"I'm having my quiet time."
Which is completely different from hiding.
Sarica joins me on the balcony but walks past my table. A pair of stone gargoyles seemingly watch over her as she leans against the balustrade.I close my journal and get to my feet. A gentle breeze dances past, and the older girl impatiently tucks her bubblegum-colored locks behind her ear.
Sarica glances at my journal and wrinkles her nose.
"What?" I ask blankly.
"Exactly. Whatdo you think will happen if your diary falls into the wrong person's hands?"
"Not possible," I answer promptly.
"Duh. Of course, it's—-"
"My journal may end up in someone else's hands," I clarify, "but who says they're the wrong pair?"
Words like this are usually enough to make Sarica roll her eyes. It's why I've said them. She's just so adorably easy to provoke, and teasing her has always been one of my favorite hobbies.
But instead of rising to the bait like she usually does, I'm stunned when Sarica only stares at me.
"I hate it," Sarica whispers.
The pain in her eyes says everything her words fail to get across, and all I can do is look at her.
"There's just so much of Giancarlo in you, Gaz. So, so much."
