Concerto (North Security 2)

My phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” I tell him, stepping away.

Found him, it says from an undisclosed number.

I type in the reply quickly. Alive?

Unfortunately.

Relief fills me. That would be Josh’s sense of humor. He wouldn’t be making jokes if our brother Elijah were seriously injured.

Josh thinks he’s being clever and incisive—and damn him for being right. What he said about the baby bird at the wedding? I’m still thinking about that, when I had almost forgotten. If not forgotten, at least buried deep enough to slowly poison me from the inside. Close enough.

My stomach clenches hard.

On the first day we’d been locked inside, I had run my fingers through the pile on the carpet, into the seams of my pockets, searching for crumbs to feed her.

On the second day I had wrapped the baby bird in an old sweater so it would stay in the corner, safe and unharmed, while I rammed my shoulder into the door again and again, until the wood splintered—but did not break—and my shoulder throbbed.

On the third day I’d simply held her, whispering things about blue skies and a ground full of delicious worms. I told her how soft she was, what a good baby bird, as she grew more and more quiet. Until she finally stilled, falling asleep for the last time.

I have tickets for a box at Samantha’s opening show. At the next one and the next one. Maybe it’s fucked up that I could have followed her whole goddamn tour, but I realize now that I can’t. It would be like trapping her in the closet with me.

She would never survive, and I would have to watch her slowly die.

SAMANTHA

The graduation ceremony at St. Agnes takes twice as long as the one at Kingston High, even though we have a fraction of the number of students. There are speeches by the pr

incipal and the counselor. Laney gives a moving speech as the valedictorian, one about loss and the intractability of hope—all the more meaningful because her mother isn’t home for this.

The commencement speech comes from a former senator, who speaks to the small room as if we were gathered on the lawn of Princeton.

The senator’s pale eyes flicker with recognition when my name is called. Samantha Alistair Brooks. Despite the smattering of fan mail I get every week, I’m not really famous outside the music world. I doubt he read the in-depth article in Classical Notes.

He probably knew my father.

Tension knots in my stomach as I climb the short steps.

My gaze crosses the room, past the rows of proud parents in bamboo chairs, to the man in the back. Liam North stands with a sense of resolve, as if facing some dangerous enemy, resolute in the face of death. His eyes have turned dark emerald, unreadable as I cross the stage.

Principal Keller gives me a grim smile and the same murmured praise in Latin that every other student receives. I’m sure he’s glad that I’ll be gone from the school. Doesn’t matter that I graduated in the top one percent. Liam made it clear that I would not perform on behalf of the music department during the interview, which means that despite having a semi-famous student, they could never use me.

At least I didn’t get expelled shortly before graduation.

The senator also greets every student, a practiced political smile on his face. He clasps my hand but doesn’t let go. “Samantha Alistair Brooks. Daughter of the diplomat?”

I don’t like his clammy grip, but I can’t break free. Not without causing a fuss in front of the entire graduating class and their parents. “Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my eyes averted. Don’t hold up the line, I urge him silently, hoping that his sense of propriety won’t prolong the conversation.

“A good man,” he says, keeping hold on me. “A patriot. It was a great loss to the country when he passed away. A heart attack, was it?”

“Yes, sir.” I don’t mention that his death was seen as suspicious at the time. Secret Service conducted an investigation, but nothing was conclusive. Or at least, nothing they told his twelve-year-old daughter.

“Didn’t he have a son, as well?”

I glance back at Liam. He’s taken two steps forward, and I know I only have to give him the signal and he’ll barge onto the stage to remove the senator’s hand from me. A short shake of my head. I can handle this myself. As he pointed out, I’ll be on my own during the tour—and for the years to follow. My chest feels impossibly full at the thought.

Graduation should feel like a time of possibility, a time of hope. It makes me ache that my independence will come at such a steep price, distance from the man who’s my only home.

“We aren’t close,” I say, which is an understatement. I haven’t seen my brother since the last time he fought with my father and left. He’s been in the military, though I suppose I wouldn’t know if he got out. He declined to take custody of me when my father died. And he never reached out to me after that.