I grip the pair of binoculars with one hand and hold my phone to my ear with the other. A steady, chilling winter wind cuts through my clothes. No place does wind like Manhattan in the winter.
“You’re sure?” I say into the phone. “Completely sure?”
I can tell from the sigh on the other end of the line that Mrs. Fitzgerald is getting impatient with me. Not that I can blame her. She’s done me a huge favor, and now she wants to get on with her day. “You’re looking right at him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I acknowledge. I’m standing a block away from Claymore Tower, watching through the binoculars as Thomas exits the building and crosses the street.
I know it’s really him. I see his red hair. I see his jawline. I notice that his confident walk is . . . not quite the same. He’s keeping his head down, just plodding along.
I tuck the binoculars into my backpack.
“So he comes here a lot?”
“It’s the same each time,” Mrs. Fitzgerald says. “He goes to the top of Claymore Tower and then heads to a café at the edge of the park. Now, if you’re going to do this, I suggest you get it over with instead of conspicuously loitering out in the open.”
Even though I look nothing like the Angel that the world remembers, Mrs. Fitzgerald worries I’ll be recognized now that I’m back in New York.
“Okay, then I guess I’ll just . . . go talk to him.”
“We don’t know that the medication worked,” Mrs. Fitzgerald reminds me, her tone at once telling me that I shouldn’t get my hopes up and that she understands if I do. “We don’t know what he remembers. He may just be drawn here for reasons he doesn’t understand. But you’ll never find out if you keep stalling forever.”
End call.
Her phone etiquette is just as abysmal as ever. Over the last six months, just about everything in my life has been transformed except her.
I’ll never again criticize the media, because it was the live coverage of the showdown at the nursing home that saved Thomas. And maybe me, too. All that public scrutiny threw a monkey wrench in Claymore’s plan to spirit Thomas away and fake his death. It also helped that Thomas’s very wealthy parents hired a bunch of expensive lawyers and even a publicity company that specializes in crisis management. They kept Thomas squarely in the public eye in just the right way so that Claymore—who has always preferred to operate in the shadows—had no choice but to back off. Upon being released from the hospital, Thomas went back to stay with his adoptive parents, out of Claymore’s reach, at least for now.
And the kill shot that got me? The one those television cameras caught? Well, that’s been quite a hit. Even though my body was never recovered, several ballistics experts jawed for hours on cable news shows about how lethal these rifles are, even at long range. No one, they all concluded, could have survived that gunshot.
Of course, my reputation took a beating. Claymore blamed me for the whole situation, including starting the fire that killed his wife. But I’m dead now. No need to speak ill of me. And apparently I do have some loyal supporters who are insisting that I was set up. They say that I was the victim of a conspiracy and the government is still actively engaged in covering up what happened.
Ha.
But whatever story people believe, Angel Ramos is dead. She sacrificed herself so I could start fresh with a new life.
And Mrs. Fitzgerald was right: People move on. As sensational a story as it was, other sensational stories came after. And people forgot.
We’re still not sure what happened to Mikey, but Mrs. Fitzgerald has a lead. Finding out whether he got a semi-happy ending is near the top of my to-do list now that I’m back in New York.
Item one on my to-do list is now directly ahead.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve spent the past six months learning how to turn on my Velocius skills as easily as snapping my fingers. Unfortunately, none of my newly honed superpowers will help me in this situation.
The sandwich shop that Thomas has just entered is not the kind of place I was expecting to find him. Inside it smells of coffee and burned sugar and that stale lemony scent of air fresheners in public restrooms. It’s the sort of café where old people come for a good deal on a bowl of soup. Nothing wrong with it, but nothing that would be an obvious draw for a rich kid with all of New York City’s varied cuisine at his fingertips.
He’s standing in line at the counter. I take a plastic tray and get in line behind him. My heart is pounding. I don’t know what to do.
Should I just say his name?
I watch him slide his tray along, past a display of desserts. They’ve got slices of cake covered in plastic wrap. Sad-looking cups of fruit cocktail. He reaches up and takes a glass dish of rice pudding.
I stare down at the pudding. He looks up and our eyes meet. But there’s no gleam of recognition. He just gives me a slightly embarrassed smile and then keeps sliding his tray along while I stay frozen in place.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t remember. I thought I was prepared for this possibility but I wasn’t. It hurts worse than anything I’ve ever experienced.
Says the girl who’s actually been shot in the chest.
He slides his tray up to the woman at the cash register. But instead of paying immediately, he glances back at me. “I can’t help noticing that you’re staring at my rice pudding. I know it’s kind of a weird thing to buy, but rice pudding is the reason I come here.”
I manage a weak twitch of a smile. “Oh?”
“Yeah. I can’t seem to get enough of the stuff.” He shrugs. “I guess I get it for the sentimental value. It reminds me of being in the hospital.”
“Your hospital experiences must have been far more pleasant than mine,” I say.
“Not at all. I never want to see the inside of a hospital again if I can help it, but for some reason, whenever I eat rice pudding, it cheers me up. I can’t explain it.”
I’m about to turn and walk away. It just hurts too much to see him.
“Aren’t you getting anything?” he asks. He takes a second dish of pudding and puts it on his tray. “How ’bout it? My treat.”
“Thanks, but I probably should get go—”
But looking up into his face, I’m stopped cold. Those dark brown eyes, the way he’s looking at me. I forgot how unbelievably handsome he is. I can’t move.
“Have we met before?” he asks. His eyes have narrowed, like he’s trying to think of something he can’t quite grasp. A memory. An association. It puzzles him. And Thomas has never been one to let a puzzle defeat him.
“I swear I don’t make a habit of using that line, and if you tell me your name, I’ll retire it forever in your honor.”
I hesitate a moment. My new identity—the name that matches my blonde-dyed hair and blue contact lenses—will never stop feeling like a lie.
Even though I know I’ll be breaking one of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s security rules, I decide to tell him the truth. Sort of.
“Sarah.”
“Would you like to join me, Sarah?”
“Why did you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like, you know, Sarah. Like you’re using air quotes.”
“Because I don’t think that’s your real name. I think you just gave me some random fake name because you’re thinking about brushing me off. Not that I’d blame you—you’ve probably been hit on by some complete creepers, and it’s logical to assume I might fall into that category.”
“I’m not . . . I don’t want to brush you off.”
Our eyes lock.
All I want to do is reach out and pull him into my arms, but I can’t.
“Well, Sarah is my real name, for the record,” I say. “But I will overlook your skepticism. And I still accept your gift of pudding.”
He puts his hand over his heart and gives an exaggerated exhale in relief. “Thank you.”
I smile. He pays and motions for me to sit down at a table with him.
This is not what I’d hoped for.
Or is it?
We’re both safe now. We have a chance to start over, just like two normal people. We’ve been through a lot to get here. Maybe this is our consolation prize.
I’ll take it.