If You Could See the Sun (69)

My heart stops.

“Who was that?” Peter grumbles, his voice thick with sleep and muffled by the pillow.

Jake glances over again at the spot where I tripped, then shakes his head. “No one. Probably the cleaning lady or some dude who got the wrong door.”

I stay completely still as he shuffles back to bed in his slippers, falling onto the covers with a loud yawn.

Only when he starts snoring do I creep over to Peter’s bed.

He’s curled up on his side like a little boy, the corner of his blanket covering his stomach, an arm resting under his head. He looks peaceful. Unsuspecting.

Undeserving of what’s about to happen.

I’m so sorry, Peter, I think, as I set the prepared note down on his pillow, inches away from his nose.

It’s been typed out on glossy, business card–like paper, containing only the lines:

Peter.

Please come and visit me in

Room 2005 as soon as you see this.

I have something important

I want to tell you in person.

Andrew wanted to make sure that the message couldn’t possibly be traced back to him, so there are no digital receipts, none of his fingerprints, none of his handwriting. Deciding on what to actually say in the message was the other issue. I’d gone back and forth on a mock note from one of the teachers, or something with a more romantic tone, or mentioning someone he cared about.

But in the end I decided to go with something vague. Something that will hopefully pique his interest enough for him to follow the instructions.

Now Peter just needs to read it.

I take a deep breath. Flex my trembling fingers. Realize that this is my last chance to turn back, to retract everything, but I’m already here and the note has been arranged and I’ve never quit anything halfway before, not if I can control it—

So instead I shake Peter’s shoulders gently and wait for him to wake.



* * *



He opens his eyes slowly.

Blinks around in the darkness, disorientation washing over his face like the shadows from the curtains.

I watch him rub a sleepy hand over his cheek. Watch him turn just an inch on the pillow and freeze, his gaze landing on the note. Watch him pick it up carefully, still a little disorientated, and read through the lines.

He pauses. Clicks on the night-light.

Instinctively, I crouch down to conceal myself from view, even though of course he can’t see me anyway.

“Jake?” Peter calls, voice hoarse. “Did you... Did you see anyone come in here?”

But Jake is still snoring. He hasn’t moved an inch.

Peter glances down at the note in his hands again, turning it over and over as if to make sure it’s real, and my heart is racing so loudly I’m convinced it’s going to give me away. He doesn’t hear it, though. He studies the note a beat longer, then stands up, shrugging on the denim jacket laid out on his bedside table. His eyes are more alert now, his body tensed.

The air feels impossibly still.

I don’t dare breathe until Peter slides his phone and the note into his pocket and heads out the door.

I follow close behind him.

Out in the bright hotel hallway, Peter heads straight for the elevators. I knew he would, but it’s still inconvenient. As soon as he presses the glowing square button to go up, I press it too, turning it back off. For everything to go smoothly, Peter has to use the stairs. After my inspection of the area earlier tonight, that’s the only place I know for certain where there won’t be any security cameras to catch his movements.

Peter frowns. Tries again.

And again, I hit the button right after him, careful not to brush against his hand in the process.

His frown deepens. He moves to the lift on the other end of the hall, where I repeat the motion the same number of times he does, until eventually he gives up and swears under his breath.

“Stairs it is then,” he mutters.

Henry was supposed to patrol the area to make sure no student or teacher sees Peter, but he’s clearly still stuck in his room with Rainie and the others. Never mind, I tell myself as I follow Peter around the corner. I just have to avoid Vanessa, wherever she is now, and hope no one comes out for a midnight stroll through the corridors.

Though the rest of the hotel is all spotless marble surfaces, elaborate flower decorations and well-lit carpeted halls, the stairs are dark and steep and slightly uneven, everything coated in a thin layer of dust. The shadowy corners reek of garbage and disinfectant.

Peter climbs up the steps with surprising, enviable ease; I have to hurry just to keep up with him, but soon I have an awful stich in my side and a thousand small, protesting aches in my legs and lungs.

Times like this almost make me wish I’d devoted as much effort to PE class as my academic subjects.

Then again, I doubt any number of burpees and torturous basketball warm-up exercises could’ve prepared me for a covert kidnapping operation in one of Suzhou’s tallest hotels.

By the time we’ve reached the twentieth floor, an obscene amount of sweat has dripped down my back, plastering my shirt to my skin, and I can’t quite tell if it’s from the sheer physical exertion of the climb or my nerves.

We’re so very close now. The door is just up ahead of us, down the first corridor—I can see it. And Peter doesn’t have the faintest clue what’s about to happen—