Page 82 of If You Could See the Sun
There’s abutin his tone. I can sense it.
I steel myself.
“...but the evidence we have so far doesn’t look good. Even if we were to ignore the anomalies, the fact stands that Peter was taken against his will, injured, and—judging from the marks on his wrists—tied up, and you were missing the same time he was. If Peter’s parents decide to investigate further, to file a lawsuit...”
I was prepared for this. But still, my throat constricts. A loud ringing fills my ears.
“Of course,” Mr. Murphy adds, “it would be a different matter if someone had set you up for the ta—”
“No,” I blurt out. Too quickly.
His eyebrows draw together. “Are you sure, Alice?”
“I—I’m sure.”
And I am. I’d weighed out the pros and cons of telling the teachers or police about Andrew all night, and it became clear, even in my distressed state, that the cost would simply be too great. I can’t offer them any proof of correspondence without exposing Beijing Ghost, and everything that comes with it—Henry’s involvement, my classmates’ secrets, the private bank account, the stolen exam answers.
If anything, confessing would only increase my chances of being punished by law.
Not to mention all the questions it would raise about a power I can’t even explain myself.
In my prolonged silence, Mr. Murphy’s face sags with disappointment. He seems to sink deeper in his seat.
“Very well,” he says, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes. “I suppose we’ll discuss this in more depth when I meet your parents—”
“Wait. My parents?”
He stares at me like I’ve missed something obvious. “Yes. I called them as soon as I got off the phone with Peter’s father. I told them to wait for us in my office.”
And just like that, all the air leaves my lungs. Whatever semblance of composure I’ve managed to maintain cracks down the middle like an egg, my anxiety spilling out in an uncontrollable, ugly mess.
“You—you called—” My voice cracks too, and I have trouble finishing my sentence. “You called—”
“I had to, Alice,” Mr. Murphy says. Another sigh. “It’s important that they know. You’re only a kid, after all.”
The words sound oddly familiar, and it takes me a moment to recall the last time I heard them: Mr. Chen, after praising my English exam, telling me with such sincerity that I deserved to dream, to carve out a future of my own.
Now the memory feels a million years old.
Apart from orientation and my scholarship interview, my parents have never set foot on school campus before. They always say it’s because the public transport is too inconvenient, which is true—most students have private drivers, so the school has never bothered to invest in anything more accessible—but I suspect it’s really because they’re afraid of embarrassing me. Because they don’t want to stand out for all the wrong reasons when they appear beside the typical Airington parental crowd of company owners, IT executives, and national stars.
Whatever the reason, I can’t imagine them navigating their way through the five floors of the humanities building, to the tiny office at the very end of the hall, having never even come close to the place before.
So when I race out of the bus, past the other students taking their time to unload their bags in the courtyard and waiting for their drivers to pick them up, and into Mr. Murphy’s office, I’m not entirely surprised to find it empty.
But that doesn’t stop me from panicking.
“They—they must’ve gotten lost,” I babble to Mr. Murphy, my chest tightening at the thought of my parents wandering around campus in a daze, looking for me. “I have to go find them—they don’t know English that well—”
God, it’s like America all over again.
“They’re grown adults, Alice,” Mr. Murphy says with a confused look, like I’m overreacting for no reason. He doesn’t understand. “I’m sure they don’t need a tour guide just to find—”
Someone knocks on the door, and I whip around.
My mouth goes dry.
A senior student I recognize but have never spoken to before is leaning against the door frame, my parents standing close behind him, their expressions equally pinched and closed off. With a pang, I notice that Baba’s wearing his blue work overalls, that Mama’s wearing the same faded floral shirt I last saw her in at the restaurant.
