Page 73 of If You Could See the Sun
But whatever the answer is, I don’t hear it. A chill has started creeping up my spine, and before I’m forced to prove Bobby’s government conspiracy theory incorrect firsthand, I leap up, mumble something about checking to see if Vanessa’s okay, and run.
16
I knock once on Peter’s door and try to steady my erratic breathing.
Taking the lift was too risky—there are always security cameras on those things, and it’d be impossible to explain a button lighting up on its own if someone else were inside—so I ran all the way up the stairs instead. The entire back of my shirt is soaked through with sweat, but it’s hard to tell if that’s because of the physical exertion, or the worry chewing a hole through my stomach.
After what feels like a lifetime, I hear the metallic click of the lock, and the door swings open.
Jake Nguyen squints into the hallway light, his hair a mess, one of those white hotel bathrobes draped over his bare shoulders like a villain’s cape. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. Beside the empty single bed by the window, I can make out Peter Oh’s sleeping figure.
“What the hell,” Jake grumbles, staring straight through me. He scratches his head. “Is anyone there?”
He waits a full two seconds before moving to close the door again, and I duck inside just in time. But as I fumble my way further into the room, I trip over something hard—Jake’s foot. He tenses, the faint bathroom light outlining the crease between his brows.
My heart stops.
“Who was that?” Peter grumbles, his voice thick with sleep and muffled by the pillow.
Jake glances over again at the spot where I tripped, then shakes his head. “No one. Probably the cleaning lady or some dude who got the wrong door.”
I stay completely still as he shuffles back to bed in his slippers, falling onto the covers with a loud yawn.
Only when he starts snoring do I creep over to Peter’s bed.
He’s curled up on his side like a little boy, the corner of his blanket covering his stomach, an arm resting under his head. He looks peaceful. Unsuspecting.
Undeserving of what’s about to happen.
I’m so sorry, Peter, I think, as I set the prepared note down on his pillow, inches away from his nose.
It’s been typed out on glossy, business card–like paper, containing only the lines:
Peter.
Please come and visit me in
Room 2005 as soon as you see this.
I have something important
I want to tell you in person.
Andrew wanted to make sure that the message couldn’t possibly be traced back to him, so there are no digital receipts, none of his fingerprints, none of his handwriting. Deciding on what to actually say in the message was the other issue. I’d gone back and forth on a mock note from one of the teachers, or something with a more romantic tone, or mentioning someone he cared about.
But in the end I decided to go with something vague. Something that will hopefully pique his interest enough for him to follow the instructions.
Now Peter just needs to read it.
I take a deep breath. Flex my trembling fingers. Realize that this is my last chance to turn back, to retract everything, but I’m already here and the note has been arranged and I’ve never quit anything halfway before, not if I can control it—
So instead I shake Peter’s shoulders gently and wait for him to wake.
He opens his eyes slowly.
Blinks around in the darkness, disorientation washing over his face like the shadows from the curtains.
I watch him rub a sleepy hand over his cheek. Watch him turn just an inch on the pillow and freeze, his gaze landing on the note. Watch him pick it up carefully, still a little disorientated, and read through the lines.
