"He was desperate." A misshapen laugh roils through her, mean and fond and horrified. She grips the vanity's edge. "I couldn't fathom why he'd put himself into danger helping her. Why he'd choose her over doing the right thing." It's not about her; York's voice. Scolding, imploring. She didn't believe him.

"Deserting is the worst thing a soldier can do. Abandoning your duty in the middle of a war we were well on our way to losing. We needed everyone."

So she stayed.

And fought.

And got herself thrown off a cliff in the matter of minutes.

Like an idiot.

"I'm the one that ruined things, not him."

Gerry's silence settles over her like a spray of gunfire. She's locked where she stands, unable to turn her head for fear of what expression she might find. To meet the eyes of someone, anyone— especially him— and have her eyes met in return. If she doesn't look, he's not real. He'll go away, maybe. He'll forget he ever saw any of this, take the hint and disappear. Hold it together. Hold. It. Together.

I remind you of him.

Carolina clamps a hand hard over her mouth and forces a noise down. Her eyes burn.

York is gone. Dead. If she had left with him that day, done the right thing, she could have stopped Wyoming from gunning him down. He'd be alive. This is her fault. All her's. No amount of ballet or lighter tricks or magic lock-picking will bring him back. She won't find him anywhere in ink-black hair and swarms of tattoos.

She can't bring herself to confirm or deny.

"You — you shouldn't have seen any of that."