Page 76 of If You Could See the Sun
I should throw Peter’s phone away. Now. Crush it and destroy all the evidence, make sure no one can track him or contact him, just like I was told to do. This is the last stage of our plan. Once I’m rid of his phone, I’ll be able to go back to my room and forget about this whole task for good. But—
God, his parents are going to be so worried. And they have every reason to be.
The worst part is that I’vemethis parents before. They’d volunteered to help out at the Global Community Day festival a year ago. His father had bragged to everyone who came within a five-foot radius of him about his genius, hardworking son, beaming so wide the entire time it must’ve hurt his face, and his mother, with her sharp tongue and small frame, the way she’d scolded Peter for not wearing a warm-enough jacket, had reminded me of Mama.
And if someone were to call Mama up in the middle of the night to tell her I’d disappeared in a city far away from home—
No.
Stop it.
It’s too late. I just have to get up. Move. Put as much distance between me and this place—this memory—as possible.
After who knows how long, I finally manage to pull myself back up into a standing position. My feet move obediently toward the stairs, in the same direction I came from. I take one step. Then another. Somehow, it’s more exhausting than climbing up a mountain.
I can’t stop thinking about Peter in that room.
About his mother, who’s still waiting to welcome him home with his favorite dish. Who won’t be able to sleep once she finds out he’s gone.
Whatever you do, do not turn around, I command myself, even as my feet drag against the carpet.Do not turn around. Do not fucking turn arou—
I turn around.
Without even fully realizing what I’m doing, I run back to Room 2005 and pound on the door.
“R-room service for two.” My voice is a terrible, breathless squeak. It occurs to me too late how utterly unprepared I am. My own phone’s battery is running low, and Henry has no idea what I’m planning to do, and the only weapon I have on me is a fruit knife I took from my hotel room. But it’s also too late to go back now. “Club sandwich with truffle fries.” This is the code Andrew and I agreed upon in case I needed to speak to his men directly. I can only pray it works.
At first, there’s nothing but deafening silence on the other end. Then footsteps approach, slow and cautious. After a few seconds of just-audible murmuring and shuffling around, the door creaks open.
I glance up.
Three men tower over me. They’re dressed in identical business suits, their striped ties straight and well ironed, all wearing dark pollution masks that cover most of their faces and fitted, surgical gloves. They don’t look anything like the kidnappers I’d been imagining. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I had accidentally stumbled into a private business meeting.
The tallest of the three stares into the space behind me. “Hello?” He cranes his neck, opens the door wider. “Anyone there?”
I creep in past him.
The first thing I notice is that the TV is on, the sound turned off, and the other men’s eyes are glued to a basketball game playing over the large flat screen. I guess holding a kid hostage can get pretty boring after a while.
The next thing I notice is Peter, and my heart drops to the pit of my stomach.
He’s been pushed into the farthest corner of the room, blindfolded and gagged, the ropes still secured firmly around his wrists, feet, and waist. Andrew She had made it sound like Peter would be resting in a nice little resort until the company campaign was over, but this—this is too much.
There’s no way in hell I can leave him here like this.
As I rush toward him, I hear the tall man mutter, “So strange.” Then: “Who did She Zong’s son hire for the job again?”
The man standing closest to the TV shrugs. “Person from some kind of black market app. Apparently it’s built a solid reputation around their school for doing whatever people want.”
“But no one knows who it is? Or how they managed to drop this kid”—the tall one jerks a finger at Peter, and I freeze, careful not to give my presence away—“right off at our door?”
“Nope.”
When the three of them have turned back to the TV, I crawl forward, shaking violently all over. My fingers fumble for the ropes behind the chair, and I feel Peter stiffen.
Please act normal. I’m trying to help you,I think desperately.
If only my powers included telepathy as well.
