Page 92 of Plain Sight

“I—”

“Have you considered graduate studies?”

“Oh!” I have considered graduate studies. I have considered looking closer at Greece. I have considered a lot of things. “I’ve considered that, yeah!”

“What would you think of…” He hums, thinking. “A specialized program? A year for the master’s. Three months abroad. But not until next summer, so you’d have the time to refine your interests. Narrow your area of study.”

“That would be awesome.” My relief is as palpable as a mural finally uncovered after years under the dirt. “I think that would be really good.”

Mr. Finch grins, the lines in his face deepening. “I will submit a formal wavier for the undergraduate department, and we will meet—say, in April? And determine the course of your graduate studies. I would sit with you now, but I have a meeting—” He glances at his watch. “Ah! I’m five minutes past time. Off you go, dear girl.”

I float out of the building on cloud nine. The blustery wind doesn’t get to me. The traffic noise doesn’t get to me. Nothing gets to me.

Not even the mystery still clinging to the window ledges of my life.

There was a guy who…kept saving me.

That same guy saved Jameson’s wife, Lily, on their wedding day.

My brothers call him the Good Samaritan, but he’s the son of a murderer, and they fled the country.

I don’t know why the Good Samaritan did the things he did. His father, Malcolm Walsh, murdered my parents. He burned down the building they were in and that’s how they died.

Is his son trying to make up for that?

If he is, then why would he leave the country with his dad?

It’s the kind of problem that nags at me when I can’t sleep.

Why?

Why?

And where did they go?

I know it’s not a question that should occupy a lot of my time. Everybody’s watching out for us. If they come back to New York, we’ll know. If Lily’s grandfather makes a single move out of line, he’s going from house arrest to federal prison, and I know he doesn’t want that. I’m safe from the Good Samaritan.

God, that’s an ironic sentence.

I’m safe, but I still wonder.

Jameson: are you coming? Habby misses you

Ah, yes. A nickname only Jameson Hill could come up with. Harry combined with babby. Not baby. Babby.

Remy: what about you?

Jameson: I could take or leave

Jameson: JUST KIDDING! I LOVE U

I throw my head back and laugh, and that’s when I see it⁠—

A flash of blond hair in the corner of my eye. I swear, it’s the exact shade of the Good Samaritan’s. But it can’t be him, because he’s not here. I look anyway, fast as I can, in every direction.

There are plenty of people around, but none of them is him.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up slowly, like a man on tiptoe, edging closer and closer.