Page 25

Vivienne hadn’t spent much time in other people’s houses. When she was young, it was a precautionary measure. Away from the watchful eyes of Philip and Mikhail, it would be too easy for her to slip up and speak. Later, once she’d grown old enough to guard her tongue like a fortress, it was a habit. She stayed at home, locked away in her room and viewing the world through the narrow window of her cell phone—building a veritable kingdom in the palm of her hand, where she could be as loud or as quiet as she wanted without ever speaking, could shape herself into whatever or whomever she wanted.

Outside her room, the rest of the Farrow house was untouchable. A museum. Sun soaked and beige, she’d heard her mother call it once, during an interview with her favorite home and garden magazine. She’d been all smiles as she showed the journalist from room to room, standing proudly aside in her new dress and designer heels as the photographer snapped photos.

All Vivienne ever saw it as was cold.

The Walsh family home was anything but. Color infused every corner, the myriad hues plastered with photographs of a tiny, grinning Thomas in an inflatable pool, Tessa in a high chair, her face smeared with spaghetti. Pinned here and there were creased Crayola drawings of striped giraffes and lopsided horses, torn coloring book pages filled with broad slashes of primary color where the artist hadn’t been big enough to stay inside the lines.

It was the sort of thing her mother threw away, the moment she received it.

Vivienne and Thomas walked in silent single file down a narrow hallway bearing smiling, gap-toothed photos of Thomas and his sister—so many that there was hardly any wall left over—and then headed down a short set of carpeted stairs. From there, a door swung open and they emerged into a garage.

Or the bones of one.

There were no cars to be found. Instead, a neatly made bed had been pushed up against the farthest wall, its flannel duvet folded down at the head. Nearby—hemmed in by a tower of storage bins marked winter —was a partially painted dresser, as though someone had begun the project with the intention of restoring it into something new and then given up halfway through. Several pegboard shelves were mounted on the wall, and on them sat a variety of comic book figurines in pristine condition, save the film of dust gathering on their shoulders.

Is this your room?

“It was this or bunk with Tess,” he said without looking at her. “I have to make a quick call. I’ll be right back.”

And then he was gone, his phone at his ear, the low murmur of his voice echoing back toward her in an indecipherable baritone. She moved through the space in silence, alone and desperate for something to do, and fell to tracing idle fingers over the dusty heads of the figurines. Her finger paused on a compass, the cap open to reveal shattered glass and a red, wobbly arrow. Intrigued, she lifted it for inspection.

The click of the door falling shut brought her heart veering into her throat. She whirled to find Thomas standing just inside, staring intently at the scope in her hand. The line wobbled aimlessly, not pointing north at all, but instead just inside her shoulder. His eyes darkened. Nervously, she set the compass back on the shelf.

Sorry , she signed. I shouldn’t have touched anything.

“It’s fine,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Sit down. Let’s clean you up.”

I can do it myself.

He gestured to her temple. “It’s going to be a little difficult to patch that up without a reflection.”

It was the closest he’d come to making a joke since arriving at Hudson’s house. Relief cracked through her and she lowered herself onto the bed, tucking her legs up under her. Taking a seat by her side, he flipped open the medical kit and sifted through the contents until he found a sterile pad and tiny vial of saline. Gingerly, he set to cleaning the blood from her face. She held still and let him work, hardly daring to breathe.

Finally, he gently pressed a bit of butterfly tape over the gash in her temple and sat back, regarding his handiwork through the lamplit dark. His throat corded in a careful swallow. In the quiet, she could feel him building up the courage to say something, and she became suddenly terrified of what it might be.

“Vivienne—”

It’s your birthday , she signed, cutting him off.

“It was, yeah.”

You didn’t tell me.

A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’ve had a lot going on.”

I didn’t get you anything.

“I didn’t expect you to.”

I should have gotten something. Her irritability came through in her syntax—her hand snapped into a circle, index finger jabbing skyward. Thomas placed his hand over hers, stilling her fingers. It was a gesture she was positive he’d meant to be reassuring. Instead, his touch lit a fuse in her blood.

“I mean it. I’m glad you didn’t get me anything.”

She pulled her hand back, quick as a shot.

You do everything for me , she signed, crossing her fists and then letting them fall furiously flat, like it was an accusation . And I’ve done nothing for you.

Something hardened in his expression. “Don’t start that again.”

Start what?

“‘You’ve been so kind to me,’” he mocked, throwing her words from the churchyard back in her face. “This isn’t kindness, Vivienne. I’m not being nice to you.”

Then what is it?

“You really need me to say it?” His laugh came out short. She heard the click of his swallow. “Fine, I’ll say it. I like you, Vivienne.”

The admission felt like a skipped step on a stair. She launched to her feet. You can’t.

“Well, I do,” he said, rising up after her. “I don’t know why you’re surprised. I thought I’ve been pretty obvious.”

A tremulous silence stretched out between them. Slowly, Thomas stepped into her. When she didn’t balk, he reached for her hands, threading his fingers through hers. The simplicity of it sent an electric current zinging down her spine. Tugging her closer, he tipped his forehead to hers.

“I like you,” he said again, firmer this time.

She looked down at their hands, perfectly entwined between them. How many times had she envisioned this as they sat in silence on the couch, the space between them growing smaller by the day? How many nights had she lain awake wishing she was the sort of person who could love without reservation?

She knew better. She would never be that girl. She pried her hands from his. It doesn’t matter.

His gaze grew turbulent. “What doesn’t matter?

Whether or not you like me. We can’t be together.

He stared at her for a beat. For two. The look in his eyes nearly fractured her resolve. Softly, he said, “You think I don’t know that? You think that every time I look at you, I don’t know that you’ll never be mine?”

Mine. The word pinged in the quiet.

Because I’m a monster , she guessed, blinking back tears. Because I’m made of death.

“No,” he countered. “Because you’re disciplined and clever and connected and you have the entire world at your feet and I’m going to spend the rest of my life working odd jobs to make ends meet. Look at me. Look around. I can’t give you anything you don’t already have.”

It was her turn to stare, the breath fleeing her lungs.

“I mean, Jesus , Vivienne,” he said, “you don’t have to remind me.”

She flew up onto her toes and silenced him with a kiss, closed mouthed and careless. He remained frozen for the space of a heartbeat, surprised, and then caught her to him with an immediacy that leveled her. It wasn’t like the other times—stolen moments in sunlit bedrooms and shadowed alcoves. This time, it was only the two of them and the endless night ahead. This time, they met in a clash of teeth and tongues that left her seeing stars.

He didn’t hold back. He touched her everywhere, leaving impressions of his fingers along her jaw, her collarbone, the nape of her neck. A sudden tug at her throat drew a gasp to her lips. They broke apart, his eyes shining in the dark, his finger looped in the chain she’d stolen from his room. Breathless, he drew it out from beneath her shirt.

His medallion flashed in the light, turning in a pivot. His eyes lifted to hers. His stare was as dark as the deepest ocean.

“Say it back,” he ordered.

Say what?

“Tell me you like me.”

I don’t , she signed. I love you , she thought.

“A thief and a liar.” He let the medallion drop. “I’ll help you. Repeat after me: ‘I like you, Tommy.’”

She shook her head, but he didn’t let up.

“You can do it,” he coaxed. “You won’t hurt me. I’m pretty sure I’m immune.”

She wanted to tell him she’d been biting his name between her teeth for weeks. To admit that she said it all the time, when there was no one else around to hear. But she was afraid, afraid.

What if last time had been a fluke? What if this time she killed him?

When she stayed silent, he let it go. Light from the moon spangled in his eyes as he ducked his head to kiss the place where her neck met her shoulder.

After that, she chronicled each moment in vivid bursts of awareness. His hands in her hair. His mouth at her throat. The soft swell of his mattress at her back and the jackrabbit beat of his heart against her fingertips. It was there she found her courage, buried in the hush of a midnight.

“Tommy,” she whispered into the dark.

He tensed all over, pulling back just far enough to see her face. Reaching out a hand, she pressed a thumb to the crinkle in his brow.

“I like you, too.” The admission came out in a whisper.

“Well, yeah.” His mouth kicked up in a smile. “Who wouldn’t?”

When they finally fell asleep, it was with their hands laced together between them. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid.