Famous Last Words

We knelt on the ground next to the hole and gently lowered in the box. It felt like burying more than a book and a couple pieces of jewelry (and a bag of salt). It felt weirdly like we were burying Paige, too. And maybe all the other restless spirits who’d swarmed around me for years. And the rest of the Hollywood Killer’s victims.

I wished I could bury the rose necklace, too. But I had to content myself with the idea that, after the trial, it would be as good as buried in the police evidence storage. It didn’t really matter.

I knew in my heart that Paige was at peace.

Maybe she was hanging out with my dad and they were talking about how aggravating I could be.

Wyatt cleared his throat, and our eyes met.

“Are you going to say something?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It sort of feels like I shouldn’t, actually.”

He nodded, then stood up and got the shovel. I sat and watched the dirt cover the pink surface of the cardboard until it was gone. Then, when the hole was level with the ground again, Wyatt patted the sandy soil smooth and tossed the extra into the ravine.

“And that’s that,” he said, helping me to my feet.

I carried the shovel back up to the patio but didn’t bother taking it into the garage — I left it leaning against the back wall of the guesthouse, next to the overturned bucket that had helped save my life. I didn’t want the movers packing it and taking it with us.

I glanced at my phone. I’d texted Mom to say Wyatt and I were stopping for a quick coffee, but somehow we’d been at the house for almost an hour. Wyatt was way later than I’d told him he would be.

“Ready to go?” I asked. “I’m afraid I’ll get you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Honestly, if you asked me to rob a bank with you, my dad would probably be cool with it. He’s a little in awe of you.”

“And of you, too, right?”

He looked taken aback. “What did I do?”

“You did … a lot.”

“Name something specific,” he scoffed.

“Things don’t have to be specific to be important,” I said. “You were part of everything.”

We were standing by the back rail, a few yards away from the pool, looking down at the ravine and the city beyond it.

I felt a chill of loss. I’d found a piece of myself in this house, and now, leaving it, I felt as if I was leaving a piece of myself behind. This would be my last chance to be there. To say good-bye.

“Want to sit for a couple of minutes?” Wyatt asked.

I nodded, my eyes suddenly full of tears.

I sat on one of the wicker love seats and waited for Wyatt to sit in the chair across from me.

But he didn’t.

He sat down right next to me and reached for my hand.

“Willa …” he said softly.

“What?” I asked.

“You almost died,” he said, and on the last word, his voice collapsed into itself.

“That’s what people keep telling me.”

He shook his head in frustration. “Before everything happened, I’d been pla

I looked up and watched a pinprick of an airplane making its way over the city, toward the airport. “You should,” I said.

As I waited for him to speak, I felt like different parts of me had turned into delicate silk kites that were all floating off in different directions. Weightless.

But instead of answering, Wyatt leaned forward, took my face in his hands, and kissed me softly.

All the pieces of me came back together in a warm, happy rush.

My heart raced, and my skin felt awake under his touch.

Proof that I’m still alive, I thought.

Then we looked at each other. I could have stared into his soft, wry brown eyes for a hundred years.

“I just didn’t know there were people like you,” he whispered.

The weird thing is, I didn’t know there were people like me, either.

I’d thought I was a girl who didn’t belong anywhere. And now, even though I was the same person, I wasn’t that girl anymore. I felt like I belonged — like I had the right to belong — anywhere I went.

“Wyatt,” I whispered back. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” he said, without so much as a millisecond of hesitation.

“The only thing is” — I pulled back — “I’m kind of broken.”

Wyatt’s hand tightened around mine. “I don’t think you’re broken. I like you just the way you are.”

My face flushed, and I leaned into his chest.

“No,” he said, and I could feel the thump-thump-thump of his heart under his crisp white school shirt. “No, I … I love you just the way you are.”

I nodded, even though he hadn’t asked me anything. “Me, too,” I said. “I love you the way you are, too.”

I thought about how hard it had been for me, in the begi

Even when it hurt.

The breeze picked up, and Wyatt wrapped his arm around me. Our bodies fit together like we’d been designed to sit leaning into one another. Missing pieces of a puzzle, two halves of a clue in a mystery.

I rested my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, and I felt the soft canyon wind weave through my hair.

With every Acknowledgments I write (and every a

Thank you to my husband and my daughter for being the absolute best and most important things that ever happened to me. To my little sister, Ali, for being wonderful. And much love to Dad, Mom, Helen, Juli, George, Duygu, Kevin, Jillian, Robert, Rebekah, Zack, Onur Ata, Jeff, Vicky, and Aunt B.

Thank you to Chelsea DeVincent and the rest of the Soapboxies, who are like a second family to me. And to our amazing extended circle of friends. And to those rowdy lads.

Thank you to Matthew Elblonk (working with you just gets weirder and fu

Thank you to my editor, Aimee Friedman, for brutally offing, like, twelve invasive minor characters and otherwise providing such consistently awesome editorial support and input. And making it fun. AND pretending I don’t occasionally make one wish to bash one’s head against one’s desk.

Thank you to the team at Scholastic: David Levithan, Charisse Meloto, Stephanie Smith, Bess Braswell, Emily Morrow, Emily Heddleson, Antonio Gonzalez, Yaffa Jaskoll, Elizabeth Krych, Alix Inchausti, Jody Revenson, Je

Thank you and thank you and thank you to the parents, booksellers, bloggers, teachers, administrators, librarians, and media specialists who make it possible for people to read my books.

And lastly, thank you to my incredible readers. You are, as individuals as well as collectively, the cat’s pajamas.