And there it is. In the picture it doesn’t flicker and glimmer the way the triangle at that guy’s house did. And while it’s not exactly clear, it’s definitely there—a faintly glowing triangle, just like the other one.
I didn’t even notice it when I took the photo. What does it mean? Part of me thinks it’s probably just some kind of weird builder’s mark, but for some reason that doesn’t seem quite right. I sit on my window seat and lean back against the wall, tugging nervously at a short lock of my hair as I peer down into the backyard.
A movement catches my eye. A large, dark shape is emerging just at the edge of the trees. Probably just some hungry deer, I think. Squinting, I peer into the deep darkness and startle when a person walks out onto the grass. He’s wearing a long coat and hat and—
It’s the guy from the porch. The one I saw this afternoon.
Shock rattles through me, jarring bones that are suddenly chilled again. It doesn’t make any sense, but I see the blond ponytail and I … I just know. It’s him.
He’s at my house in the middle of the night.
Did he follow me? What the hell
But instead I sit there, staring.
The blond guy walks across the backyard, very slowly, kicking grass with the toes of his knee-high boots. His hands are wedged deep in the pockets of the breeches I was admiring earlier, pushing his long coat back at the waist and showing off an embroidered vest. He seems completely unconcerned by the fact that he’s standing on someone else’s property at a totally inappropriate time. He’s not hiding or even keeping to the shadows. He’s just … walking.
The tip of my nose brushes the chilly glass and I realize I’ve practically pushed my entire body up against the window. He turns and looks right up at me. Our eyes meet.
I freeze.
There seems to be something wrong with my body the last twelve hours; my fight-or-flight mechanism isn’t working quite right; it’s stuck on simply stop. I don’t so much as twitch as his gaze takes me in—my wide eyes, my open mouth, my fingertips making ten little smudges on the frosted glass.
Then he smiles—half interested, half amused, as though this were some kind of game.
But I don’t know the rules.
Strength seems to drain from my arms and my hands drop slowly, my fingers making lines down the clouded windowpane. We both stand there, frozen in time, just staring.
He raises one hand and crooks a gloved finger at me, inviting me out. I squeak and pull away, flattening myself against the wall, out of sight.
Hiding him from my sight.
My heart pounds in my temples and my fingertips as I stand there counting my breaths, trying to calm down. Who is this guy? How did he find me? After ten long breaths I scoot over and turn, peeking out from behind the curtain. I don’t have to hide, I rationalize, I’m not the one doing something wrong.
But though I stand at the window staring down for several minutes, nothing stirs, nothing moves.
He’s gone.
I’m so confused. I don’t know this guy—I’ve never seen him in my life before today.
So why do I miss him?
CHAPTER FOUR
I don’t see Benson when I enter the library—not entirely unheard of; he does occasionally have to do actual work. But despite my homework, the real reason I came here was to see him, to talk to him, and my nerves are so frazzled that when I don’t immediately catch sight of him, my still-recovering brain finds it impossible to formulate a plan B.
“Oh, Tavia dear.” Marie’s soft voice scares me so badly I spin with an audible gasp. I have got to simmer down. “Benson’s back in the file room. Would you like me to get him for you?”
Marie is the head librarian and technically Benson’s boss. She’s about as strict as a bowl of whipped cream, and Benson adores her. Which means that she adores him back—and who wouldn’t?—but also that she often hovers when we’re working and pays me extra attention because I’m Benson’s special friend.
And she always pronounces my name wrong. We’ve had the conversation—Tave, it rhymes with cave, not mauve—but it never sticks.
“Y-yes please,” I answer, hoping she didn’t notice the stutter. She just smiles and heads toward the back of the library at a maddeningly slow pace, her silver, wavy hair bouncing as she walks.
I suppose it’s not a particularly complimentary testament to my social life that my only friend is a library intern, but considering I’m attending high school online and don’t have a classmate within a hundred miles, I can hardly be choosy. After missing four months of school for physical and neurological recovery, online was pretty much my only option if I didn’t want to be a “super senior.”
Besides, Reese and Jay thought it would be better for me to get a whole new start out here, a thousand miles away from my old life. At first I assumed they just didn’t want to move, and I didn’t blame them. But in the end I think they were right. I like being someplace new—where I’m not immediately labeled the poor girl who lost both her parents. Broken and orphaned. Something tells me there’s no going back to normal after either of those, much less both.
Plus, classwork gives me an excuse to get out of the house almost every day to come here and see Benson. Not that I need an excuse, but I don’t want Reese and Jay to think I’m trying to get away from them.
And I’m not … exactly. It’s just weird to be in the house with Reese all day long every single day. I’m eighteen; I should be out doing high school stuff. Football games, school plays, hanging out at McDonald’s eating my weight in french fries. The kind of stuff I used to occasionally let my friends drag me out for, back in Michigan. The kind of stuff I’d decided to do more of my senior year at my new art school. Maybe even with a guy—a nice, artsy guy.
And then my plans crashed along with the plane.
Things like that don’t interest me anymore. I’d accepted that I would have a secluded senior year when an English assignment sent me to the library for the first time a couple months ago and Benson Ryder was the one who introduced himself to me.
Then taught me how to use microfiche. Friendship at first sight.
Literally.
I slip into a chair at our usual table and knead the muscles on my right leg—they’re always a little tender after the half-mile walk here—before glancing around the sparsely populated library. It generally isn’t too busy between nine and four, unless one of the local elementary schools is having a field trip. It gets busier in the afternoon, when school’s out, but one of the advantages of online school is that I can go to the library anytime I want.
Plus Benson is more likely to be free to “study” with me when fewer people are there to ask for his help—or overhear the conversation we’re about to have.
As I reach into my backpack to pull out my textbooks, I’m dismayed to see my hands are shaking. Am I nervous to tell Benson? That doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe I’m just still so messed up from everything that’s happened.
And I’m not sure exactly how to tell Benson about the blond guy from yesterday.
And last night.
This morning, technically.
I don’t even know his name, but he feels special somehow. My secret. Not