If You Could See the Sun (75)

The rest of the year level was ordered to pack their bags and check out before sunrise, so we could catch the earliest train back to Beijing. No explanation was provided.

But by now, I’m sure everyone’s come up with their own theories on what happened; the cause behind Mr. Murphy’s frantic calls at 4:00 a.m., the shriek of the ambulance siren cutting through the night, the terrible look on Wei Laoshi’s face ever since...

And, of course, the reason I’ve been separated from my cohort, forbidden from speaking to anyone and forced to sit in the teachers’ train compartment instead. I haven’t even had a chance to check on Henry. To see if he’s okay. None of the teachers have brought up his name so far, which means he’s at least evaded suspicion, but I can’t stop thinking about the fight last night: all his potential injuries, the thin cut on his fist.

I can’t stop worrying about him.

“Alice, I’d like to give you a chance to explain,” Mr. Murphy says. He’s sitting directly across from me, hunched over awkwardly to avoid bumping his head on the upper bunk.

I’m hunched over too, but it’s fear that keeps my spine bent, my eyes down, rather than a lack of space.

“Explain what?” I mumble, stalling for time.

“I spoke with Peter before he was taken to the hospital, and he said you were there in the hotel room with him.”

I clench my teeth. It’s too hot in here, the walls threatening to close in, the low ceiling lights blinding like a policeman’s torch. A drop of sweat rolls down my neck.

“He also said,” Mr. Murphy continues, with some uncertainty, “that you almost seemed to...appear out of nowhere. That he isn’t sure how you got into the room in the first place.” He pauses. “Does that sound right?”

A choked, gurgling noise escapes my lips when I open my mouth to protest. I swallow, try again. “He was concussed, Mr. Murphy,” I say finally. “He couldn’t—I mean, have you ever heard of anyone appearing out of thin air before? Outside of movies and comic books? It—it’s ridiculous.”

Mr. Murphy shakes his head. “While the idea itself does appear far-fetched, and quite obviously defies the basic laws of physics, I’m afraid to say that the other parts of his story do add up.” His expression grows stern, and my heart seizes. “For example, when I asked Vanessa Liu about you, she recalls you being in Henry Li’s room at around midnight. But Mina Huang tells me you left shortly after Vanessa—at a time that coincides with a mysterious knock Jake Nguyen received on his door—and did not return at any point. As another example,” he goes on, listing each point off with his fingers, “I’ve contacted the hotel for security footage, and they noticed something rather...peculiar. That is, there’s no record of you entering Room 2005 at all, yet somehow, you were seen leaving the room with Peter.”

If I wasn’t so concerned about being expelled or sent to jail, I might actually be impressed by Mr. Murphy’s detective work right now.

He sighs. “See, I don’t believe in supernatural abilities, Alice, and I don’t want to believe that you would be the type of person to commit such a crime. There is also something to be said about the fact that, regardless of what happened prior, you did help Peter escape in the end...”

There’s a but in his tone. I can sense it.

I steel myself.

“...but the evidence we have so far doesn’t look good. Even if we were to ignore the anomalies, the fact stands that Peter was taken against his will, injured, and—judging from the marks on his wrists—tied up, and you were missing the same time he was. If Peter’s parents decide to investigate further, to file a lawsuit...”

I was prepared for this. But still, my throat constricts. A loud ringing fills my ears.

“Of course,” Mr. Murphy adds, “it would be a different matter if someone had set you up for the ta—”

“No,” I blurt out. Too quickly.

His eyebrows draw together. “Are you sure, Alice?”

“I—I’m sure.”

And I am. I’d weighed out the pros and cons of telling the teachers or police about Andrew all night, and it became clear, even in my distressed state, that the cost would simply be too great. I can’t offer them any proof of correspondence without exposing Beijing Ghost, and everything that comes with it—Henry’s involvement, my classmates’ secrets, the private bank account, the stolen exam answers.

If anything, confessing would only increase my chances of being punished by law.

Not to mention all the questions it would raise about a power I can’t even explain myself.

In my prolonged silence, Mr. Murphy’s face sags with disappointment. He seems to sink deeper in his seat.

“Very well,” he says, rubbing a weary hand over his eyes. “I suppose we’ll discuss this in more depth when I meet your parents—”

“Wait. My parents?”

He stares at me like I’ve missed something obvious. “Yes. I called them as soon as I got off the phone with Peter’s father. I told them to wait for us in my office.”

And just like that, all the air leaves my lungs. Whatever semblance of composure I’ve managed to maintain cracks down the middle like an egg, my anxiety spilling out in an uncontrollable, ugly mess.

“You—you called—” My voice cracks too, and I have trouble finishing my sentence. “You called—”