"Did you ever just want to kill somebody?" Jack asks, staring down at the orange flowers in his hands. "Just take a knife and rip it across their throat?"

His eyes flicker up to the gravestone. "It's not really that bad. It's not like I'm going to turn into a serial killer or anything. Sometimes I just wish I didn't have to deal with certain people, you know?"

With a sigh, he sets down the flowers and begins arranging them.

"The Engelbrights are nice. They don't seem to mind having me in their home. The agency still hasn't found anything on dad, so it looks like I'll be staying with them for a while." His eyebrows pull together a little. "I wish you'd told me more about dad, you know. I know you didn't like him much because he left you but… if I knew more it would make this easier. Maybe I'd have somebody I'm related to that I could… you know. Live with."

The flowers arranged, he lays down on the grass and stares up at the trees and the fiercely blue sky. He's wearing all black, except his vest, which is vibrant orange to match the flowers. Orange was his mother's favorite color.

"I don't know if I can finish high school, mom."

He closes his eyes briefly.

"There are just so many people there. So many liars and hypocrites. People who deserve nothing and get everything. Like Sadie. Sadie is popular and pretty and rich and she has so many friends and she's got all this power in the school. Everybody thinks she's so wonderful. Everybody looks up to her. But… she hates me, which means that all her minions hate me. I… I just don't want to have to deal with constantly being picked on, you know? Teased because I dye my hair green or wear suits every day or because I shoot q-tips at people…"

He trails off, watching a flock of birds cross the sky.

Why can't life be simple?

"I think the world admires the wrong people. The people with pretty faces get admired and idolized, while the good people get ignored or downgraded or… I don't know. I just don't know, mom. The world doesn't make sense, and it isn't fair."

Footsteps approach and he closes his eyes, relaxing, waiting for whoever it is to pass by. As the sound of shoe on pavement retreats, he opens his eyes again.

"Is it nice, being dead?"

He pauses, waits for an answer.

"Sometimes," he laughs, "sometimes I half-expect you to respond." He rolls over and gazes at the flowers. "Do you think I'm crazy, mom? Because sometimes I feel crazy. I feel useless. I feel chaotic… like I'm falling apart. And the only way I stay put together is to wear stylish clothes to school. Like I can pretend I'm as put together on the inside as I look on the outside."

Heat beats down on his back, even though he's in the shade. He picks idly at the thick grass that's appeared over his mother's grave in the past year.

"I think you felt like that a lot near the end."

Lost?

Tired?

Hopeless?

"Chaotic. Like life has just suddenly become too much, and you just have to go on pretending because that's what people do." He looks up at her name, chiseled into the smooth, dark grey stone. "I wonder what I would turn into if I stopped pretending."

"A homicidal maniac, probably."

Jack's eyes shoot wide open and he scrambles into a sitting position with his back pressed against the gravestone. For a moment, he and Amelia just freeze there, staring at each other – Amelia somewhat awkward, Jack startled. Then he forces himself to stop hyperventilating.

"You snuck up on me."

"I've been told I'm quiet on my feet."

He unclenches his hands from the grass and uses the gravestone to pull himself to his feet. "Not many people can sneak up on me."

"Why?" she asks, walking a little closer. "Because you have fantastic hearing?"

"No. Because I listen for them."

She smiles and runs her hand over the top of the dark grey marble. "See, that's why I think you'd be a homicidal maniac. Because you're suspicious. You don't trust anybody. And I can sense it, just beneath your skin…" she touches his chest with one finger. "Chaos."

"And what would you be?"

"What, if I stopped pretending?" she smiles and sighs. "I'd probably be in the same boat as you."

He tips his head a little, watching her. "Maybe we should be friends."

"Wouldn't that be something!" she laughs. "A couple of homicidal maniacs. We could commit all our crimes together. It would be very exciting."

They stand together in silence for a few minutes, then he asks her why she's here. Her face falls, her hand tightens on the top of his mother's gravestone, and she glances across the cemetery. He nods.

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude…"

"It's fine if you'd rather not discuss it. We all have our secrets."

She smiles up at him and he can see her consciously relax her body. "It's nothing, really. My father and mother. I'm no worse off than you are."

He cocks his head. "But there's something else."

Her gaze grows distant. "My father… he was a killer. He murdered a lot of people. Destroyed a lot of lives. He got the electric chair in the end, and they cremated him. Nothing left to bury, not that it mattered. He didn't care about us. His final, crowning act was to ruin us – my mother and me, that is. He destroyed my mother's life and sent her jumping off a building. He left me to deal with distrust and foster families." She swallows hard. "You want to know what his last words for me were? 'You'll never escape their suspicion, sweetheart. That's what drove me over and it's what'll send you tumbling after me. So I'll see you in hell.'"

Jack looks down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Amelia. That's horrible."

"The funny thing is, I know he loved me," she says, voice breaking. "I always knew. He would never hurt me, never speak unkindly to me. He was there for me when I needed him. At least until I knew what he was. But even his final words – he's sorry for what he's done. He's angry with the system and he's angry that it will destroy me. But he loves me. Always did."

"I can't decide if that's a bad thing or a good thing."

She looks up at Jack and for a moment, helplessness flashes across her eyes. "Me neither."

He ducks his head. "I'm sorry for your pain."

"And I am sorry for yours." She leans back on the gravestone. "Do they still tell you to smile? You know, in school… the old joke."

"They never stop, really. It's the stupidest thing."

"If you smiled they'd probably stop. Honestly, I think they miss the old you. The jeans-and-t-shirt, instant comedy Jack Napier." She breathes deeply of the evening air. "They miss the class clown, and they just want something to laugh at again. Know what I mean?"

He nods. "Yeah. I just don't feel like being that something, and I wish they'd leave me alone about it."

"I understand."

She's staring off into the dark sky, away from the setting sun. He looks down at her – her long, thick, auburn hair; her beautifully defined jaw; the line of her nose; the green of her eyes. And he smiles just a little bit.

"Thank you."