Earthbound

Jay’s got to be about thirty-five, but he looks like a twenty-something running around in big person clothes. If I saw him on the street, I’d never believe he was a scientist, but he’s actually some kind of specialized biochemist.

He’s nice, though. Easy to talk to.

I didn’t know him before my parents died. Reese’s mom and my grandpa got married after she and my dad were mostly grown up. I was like eight. Reese had just started college and lived on campus, and I didn’t even meet her for the first several years. So finally getting to know Reese and Jay has been great.

I just wish there’d been another reason.

“Plane crash again?” Jay asks softly, noticing the expression on my face.

I pull the door of the microwave open, stopping it two seconds before it finishes so it doesn’t beep and wake Reese up too. “Actually, no.” I reach for the porcelain canister of sugar and spoon a generous helping into my mug. “Drowning, of all things.” I avoid his eyes, stirring intently.

“Think maybe your mind is moving on?” Jay asks, ever the optimist.

“Maybe.” I glance up at the clock on the oven.

2:36 A.M.

“I’m fine, Jay,” I insist. Now that reality is fully with me again, I wish he wasn’t here—wasn’t witness to my freak-out. “You can go back to bed. I’m just going to finish this and then that’s where I’m headed too.”

“Are you sure?” Jay asks, his pale blue eyes glinting even in the murky shadows of the half-lit kitchen. “Because if you don’t want to be alone, I’ll wait till you’re done.”

“I’m good. Like I said, it wasn’t about the plane, just a regular nightmare.” Even as I say the words, I remember the iciness of the water and that strange, hollow sense of loss. Regular isn’t the right word either.

I force a small smile onto my face and take a sip of the foamy milk. Ahhh! Almost worth the nightmare.

Almost.

Jay gives me a long look, but there’s nothing more he can do and he seems to know it. With a nod, he turns before I can catch him yawn—I do anyway—and heads back upstairs.

As the steps squeak lightly, I drop into a chair at the kitchen table and sip my milk. My eyes skim the moonlit backyard, so silvery it looks staged. The warmth from the mug spreads through my body, and by the time it’s empty, I’m feeling much better. The bitter cold has left me, and I think maybe I can sleep again.

Maybe.

I rub at my temples for a moment, then my fingers freeze as the realization settles almost with a click.

I know where I’ve seen that triangle.

I try to be quiet as I hurry upstairs and grab my phone off my bedside table. My feet wander over to the window as I scroll through some pictures I took on one of my history walks. Down off Fifth Street— between Piper and Sand. In the Old Money part of town.

There! A white house bedecked with six gorgeous gables and curlicued eaves. I scroll forward a few until I reach a good shot of the front entrance—a cheerful green door, stark amid crisp white walls.

And there it is. In the picture it doesn’t flicker and glimmer the way the triangle at that guy’s house did. And while it’s not exactly clear, it’s definitely there—a faintly glowing triangle, just like the other one.

I didn’t even notice it when I took the photo. What does it mean? Part of me thinks it’s probably just some kind of weird builder’s mark, but for some reason that doesn’t seem quite right. I sit on my window seat and lean back against the wall, tugging nervously at a short lock of my hair as I peer down into the backyard.

A movement catches my eye. A large, dark shape is emerging just at the edge of the trees. Probably just some hungry deer, I think. Squinting, I peer into the deep darkness and startle when a person walks out onto the grass. He’s wearing a long coat and hat and —

It’s the guy from the porch. The one I saw this afternoon.

Shock rattles through me, jarring bones that are suddenly chilled again. It doesn’t make any sense, but I see the blond ponytail and I … I just know. It’s him.

He’s at my house in the middle of the night.

Did he follow me? What the hell is he doing? Every sliver of logic within me is screaming to go get Jay. He’s just down the hall.

But instead I sit there, staring.

The blond guy walks across the backyard, very slowly, kicking grass with the toes of his knee-high boots. His hands are wedged deep in the pockets of the breeches I was admiring earlier, pushing his long coat back at the waist and showing off an embroidered vest. He seems completely unconcerned by the fact that he’s standing on someone else’s property at a totally inappropriate time. He’s not hiding or even keeping to the shadows. He’s just … walking.

The tip of my nose brushes the chilly glass and I realize I’ve practically pushed my entire body up against the window. He turns and looks right up at me. Our eyes meet.

I freeze.

There seems to be something wrong with my body the last twelve hours; my fight-or-flight mechanism isn’t working quite right; it’s stuck on simply stop. I don’t so much as twitch as his gaze takes me in—my wide eyes, my open mouth, my fingertips making ten little smudges on the frosted glass.

Then he smiles—half interested, half amused, as though this were some kind of game.

But I don’t know the rules.

Strength seems to drain from my arms and my hands drop slowly, my fingers making lines down the clouded windowpane. We both stand there, frozen in time, just staring.

He raises one hand and crooks a gloved finger at me, inviting me out. I squeak and pull away, flattening myself against the wall, out of sight.

Hiding him from my sight.

My heart pounds in my temples and my fingertips as I stand there counting my breaths, trying to calm down. Who is this guy? How did he find me? After ten long breaths I scoot over and turn, peeking out from behind the curtain. I don’t have to hide, I rationalize, I’m not the one doing something wrong.

But though I stand at the window staring down for several minutes, nothing stirs, nothing moves.

He’s gone.

I’m so confused. I don’t know this guy—I’ve never seen him in my life before today.

So why do I miss him?

CHAPTER FOUR

I don’t see Benson when I enter the library—not entirely unheard of; he does occasionally have to do actual work. But despite my homework, the real reason I came here was to see him, to talk to him, and my nerves are so frazzled that when I don’t immediately catch sight of him, my still-recovering brain finds it impossible to formulate a plan B.

“Oh, Tavia dear.” Marie’s soft voice scares me so badly I spin with an audible gasp. I have got to simmer down. “Benson’s back in the file room. Would you like me to get him for you?”

Marie is the head librarian and technically Benson’s boss. She’s about as strict as a bowl of whipped cream, and Benson adores her. Which means that she adores him back—and who wouldn’t?—but also that she often hovers when we’re working and pays me extra attention because I’m Benson’s special friend.