A Thousand Perfect Notes(60)

To Maraia Bonsignore and Sebastian Lecher for help with my translations. My characters wouldn’t be able to yell in German without you. I’m so grateful. (And Maraia! Thank you for our endless texts and your endless encouragement.)

To Emily Mead, your feedback is invaluable and you’ve survived so many bad drafts and decoded so many typos. You’re truly incredible.

To all those who tirelessly cheered for me through my blog, paperfury.com!

To my parents, for giving me books and then giving me more books because I finished the first ones too fast. You have created a book monster, I hope you’re proud. Thank you for taking my work seriously even back when I was small(er) and stapling my books together myself while listening to Beethoven symphonies on repeat.

I’m so grateful you’re all part of my story.





If it hadn’t been so dark and if his fingers hadn’t been so stiff with dried blood, he could’ve picked the lock in thirty-eight seconds.

Sammy Lou takes pride in that record. It’s one of the few things he can take pride in, considering his life consists of charming locks, pockets full of stolen coins, broken shoelaces, and an ache in his stomach that could be hunger or loneliness.

Probably hunger.

He should be used to being alone by now.

He just needs to crack this freaking lock before someone sees and calls the cops. The house has been empty for days – so says the mouldering newspaper on the driveway, the closed curtains, the lack of lights at night. He knows. He’s watched.

And now he’s been at this lock for over two minutes. His palms go slick with sweat and the dried blood dampens and slips between his knuckles. His lock picks, a gift from his brother and usually an extension of Sam’s thin and nimble fingers, feel too thick. Too slow.

He can’t get caught.

He’s been breaking into houses for over a year now.

He can’t get caught.

One of his lock picks gets jammed and he whispers a curse. He wriggles it free, but his heart thunders and seconds tick by too fast, so he abandons the lock and melts back into the shadows. There’s always another way.

He slips around the house, undone shoelaces slapping his ankles. The house is old bricks, the windows cloistered with drawn blinds. It’s harder to see back here, with a tall fence blocking the moonlight. But a woodpile sits under a small window – no security screens – and it whispers welcome.

Sam dumps his backpack on the grass and scales the woodpile, placing each foot and hand gingerly so he doesn’t end up underneath an avalanche of split logs. He’s sore enough as is, thanks. His hands trace the small bathroom window and for once he’s pleased he skipped out on the growth spurts regular fifteen-year-old boys encounter. He’s a year off for his age. Maybe two. Looking small and pathetic usually works to his advantage though, plus it turns tight windows and poky corners into opportunities.

Half balancing, half hugging the wall, Sam fiddles with the lock while the woodpile gives an ominous groan and shifts beneath him.

Things this family is good at: locking their house.

Things they suck at: stacking wood into a sturdy pile.

If this doesn’t work, he’ll have to—

‘You could always break it.’

Sam’s heart leaps about forty feet in the air – and unfortunately his feet follow. For a second he scrabbles to grip the wall, bricks ripping his fingertips, and then he loses balance and tumbles backwards. The lock picks go flying into the darkness.

At least there’s not far to fall.

At least the woodpile doesn’t tip over too.

At least, Sam thinks, still on his back and staring up at a silhouette smudged against the stars, it’s only his brother.

For a second Sam just lies there while the dewy grass soaks his back and he waits for his heart to migrate back down from his throat.

‘Dammit, Avery,’ Sam says.

‘I didn’t bring a hammer.’ Avery pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips the torch app on and shines it straight in Sam’s eyes. ‘But we could use a rock or, like, your head since it’s hard and ugly enough.’ He gives the tiniest breath of a laugh, but follows quickly with, ‘That was a joke. I was joking. You can tell it’s a joke, right?’

Sam wasn’t prepared for this tonight. Interruptions and complications and—

Avery.

And Avery wouldn’t show up unless—

‘Is something wrong?’ Sam says, shielding his eyes from the glare. ‘Are you hurt or in trouble or …’ His pulse quickens. ‘You’re OK?’

‘What?’ Avery blinks, confused. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

Sam didn’t realise, until the I’m fine comes, how tight his chest is. How shaky his hands suddenly are. He has to close his eyes a minute and fumble for a thin grip on calm. It’s fine. Avery’s fine. Sam scrambles up and snaps, ‘Turn that light off.’

He doesn’t mean to snap. It’s just that rush of panic for nothing.

‘You’re mad?’ Avery tries to hold the phone out of Sam’s reach, but it’s a wasted effort since he’s all elbows and sharp jawlines and a pointy elfish face like he skipped the effort of growing too, and Sam could just snatch it off him.

‘I’m about to be really mad.’ Sam’s teeth clench. ‘Turn it off or I’ll smack you into the middle of next week.’