Seventy-two:
Six Months Later
Prince Marlowe
I was turning seventeen.
My beautiful girlfriend had thrown me a party, and I was being dragged into a club. “Come on, sad man,” said Margot, “it’s your party. You should be happy about all of this.”
I should have been. But I couldn’t get Cecelia out of my head. She had shown up in my dreams every night since she’d died. It was always the same thing. I was in the garden, and Cecelia appeared.
“Marlowe,” she’d say.
“Cecelia,” I’d whisper. I’d walk towards her, press my face into her hair, and hold her close.
She’d look up at me with those big, sad eyes of hers. Then she would say, “Come save me.”
I couldn’t get it out of my head. Sometimes, I would have my driver go to Brixton just so I could feel like I was closer to h
