I moved down the wall to look at the next piece. It was made out of real butterfly wings, arranged in a colorful, intricate design. “They’re all so different.”

“I surround myself with things that make me happy. That’s sort of a rule I have. I got that one in Costa Rica.”

“And this one?” I pointed to a black-and-white pencil drawing of a half-naked woman draped in a sheet. Her head was tipped, and her hair covered one eye.

“An artist in Sicily. That’s me, by the way.”

I arched an eyebrow at her.

She laughed. “Antonio is about seventy-five years old and very professional. I wanted someone to paint me like one of Jack’s French girls before I die.”

I looked back at the drawing. It was tastefully done. But she was nude from the navel up. “You could have given the old guy a heart attack.”

She laughed again. “He painted Sophia Loren topless. My boobs didn’t stand a chance of doing him in.”

I begged to differ on that.

She’d hung it, so she must be okay with people looking at it, but I wasn’t really appreciating the art—I was appreciating the view, and that wasn’t the same thing. I went on to the next one, just so I wasn’t staring at her naked.

It was a photo of a graffitied brick wall with a woman dressed like the Statue of Liberty painted on it holding up a globe. “Why does this look familiar?”

“That one’s a Banksy,” she said.

I narrowed my eyes at the woman’s face. “Is that you too?” I looked back at her.

She shrugged. “Yeah. I met him at a water park in Shanghai.”

“You met Banksy, the famous anonymous street artist, at a water park in Shanghai,” I deadpanned.

She shrugged again. “I mean, I didn’t know it was him. We talked for like twenty minutes by the kiddie pool. And then like two days later this photo gets delivered to my hotel room—which was super weird because I didn’t tell him where I was staying. He wrote on the back ‘From the guy you talked to by the kiddie pool—Banksy.’”

I blinked at her.

“He authenticated it on his website. It’s supposed to represent global unity through traveling and embracing other cultures or something? I don’t know, it’s sorta confusing. They sell prints of it.”

I shook my head. “What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. A normal guy? Not as handsome as you.”

I snorted.

She looked up at me. “So what kind of law do you practice, Adrian?”

“I’m a criminal defender.”

“Huh. Why?” She tilted her head.

I looked back at the Banksy. “I like the challenge of it.”

“Are a lot of your clients guilty?”

I scoffed. “Most of my clients are guilty.”

“And that doesn’t bother you, trying to get people off when you know they deserve to go to prison?”

“Everyone deserves a defense,” I said.

She went quiet next to me for a moment. “You know, somebody like you could really change the world if you wanted to.”

I turned back to her. “And do what?”

“Fight for something that needs fighting for. Like disability rights.”

“Disability rights. That’s specific.”

“My sister was a wheelchair user before she died. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like for the disabled.” She ticked off on her fingers. “Discrimination, lack of resources, lack of basic accessibility. I mean, housing alone. Do you know how hard it is to find accessible, affordable housing for the disabled? It’s why so many disabled people end up in institutions or living in substandard or unsafe living conditions.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “And you think the cause could use another good lawyer?”

“Oh yeah.” Her lips twisted into a grin. “Especially one who likes a challenge.”

I gave her a small smile and looked at my watch. “I should probably let you get to sleep. It’s almost midnight.”

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment on her face. She handed me Harry. “Thanks for hanging out.”

“Thanks for having me over.”

Half an hour later, I was lying in bed and Vanessa knocked on the wall of my bedroom over my headboard.

I smiled and knocked back.

CHAPTER 6

IF YOU HAVE THIS SYMPTOM, YOU MIGHT BE DYING!

VANESSA

The numbness was back in my right hand.

I’d woken up this morning and fumbled my phone with fingers that felt dead.

It was 6:34 a.m. Saturday morning. I was sitting in the dark in my room wrapped in a blanket, my legs crossed on my bed, trying to do the in-through-the-nose, out-through-the-mouth breathing Yoga Lady had taught me to calm myself down. But the terror rolled through me like waves. It got bigger and bigger until it burst from my lips in a choking sob.

I didn’t want to wake Grace, so I stumbled to the bathroom with a hand over my mouth. I put the lid to the toilet down to sit and swiped open my phone to read the article on WebMD again, squeezing my right hand into a fist, feeling certain that I’d lost grip strength.

ALS can start off with something as simple as a weak feeling in your hands or feet. It’s a disease that attacks the brain cells that control a lot of your muscle movement.

ALS Association:

Gradual onset, generally painless, progressive muscle weakness is the most common initial symptom in ALS. Other early symptoms vary but can include tripping, dropping things, abnormal fatigue of the arms and/or legs, slurred speech, muscle cramps and twitches.

Mayo Clinic:

Hand weakness or clumsiness…

I don’t know why I needed to keep reading this. I knew exactly what this disease looked like.

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.

At first I’d hoped it was just carpal tunnel. But I’d gone in for testing, and it was negative. They’d wanted to send me for more study and I’d refused.

There was no test for ALS. They diagnosed it by excluding other diseases that mimic it and monitoring the progression of your deterioration. It could take up to a year of invasive procedures and poking and prodding before they slapped ALS on what was happening to me—and when they did, there was nothing to be done anyway. It was 100 percent fatal.