Although there was a seemingly endless supply of Sean Ryans in the data bank, I found his profile picture so quick, it slapped me back. But there he was. Exactly the same but changed, reinvented in a photograph of himself as Mr. Outdoorsman. Straddling a bicycle, his face obscured by aviators, with a cliché view of the mountains behind him.
Sean Ryan, Mr. Colorado. Desperate for people to think he was awesome. Mr. Chemistry Nerd, Mr. Mellow Teacher, Mr. Helpful Guy.
Mr. Hit the Refresh Button, after his Mr. Mistake Year.
In the search bar, I typed the name JESSIE FEATHERING. That profile was invalid, of course. The Featherings sounded like the type of people who’d have kept tabs on all those final arrangements and small considerations, like disconnecting a Facebook profile.
As I searched PETER QUINT, something in me was sure that his page would be open.
I was right. I dragged my pointer slow and careful as a hand along the tiny postage stamp of Peter’s profile picture. His eyes looked translucent. But I knew him already, of course, even as his actual photo unnerved me. He was the kid from the cliffs. He was Jessie’s sketch. The boy in the rain, through the window and on the bed.
And he knows you see him, Jamie, the way he stared at you last night but don’t think about that because you didn’t see him it was a sleeping pill it was a night terror.
I slid the cursor to the toolbar to exit the program. I clicked, and the drop-down menu showed me the previous user: PDQUINT.
My fingers snapped off the keys. Shock. Breathe. The last person to log on to Facebook before me, from this computer, was Peter. I steadied my breath. Okay, but that made sense. Milo and Isa preferred the family-room computer. Connie never used one. And Miles McRae hadn’t touched it, as evidenced by the fact that there were no marked tabs or bookmarks, no downloads. It was only for show—like his cigar humidor and scotch decanters and that spinning globe—to complete his gentleman’s den.
I double-clicked on Pete’s name.
PASSWORD?
Imagine, if I knew that password, then I’d be inside, with access to all Pete’s private notes and comments and images. It was a Pandora’s box. I had no other choice—or hardly any—than to try.
I typed in SKYLARK, and it shot me back an INCORRECT.
Next, I typed JESSIE. Denied.
All variations of JESSIE and PETER, of FEATHERING and QUINT, even of MILO and ISA MCRAE. Nothing, nothing.
“Just as well,” I muttered. Nights were bad enough; why fill my days with phantoms, too? Even if I wanted to research Peter Quint’s data bank, his friends and messages and photos, what did I need to get to the bottom of, anyway? What did I need to expose?
Nothing you need nothing so leave it alone you don’t need any of this.
I shut down. My head hurt, my back hurt. I needed a pill. I needed all the pills. My mind shuffled rapid-fire images—bottomless eyes, Sean Ryan on his trendy mountain bike in front of his trendy mountain range, Milo’s smirk as the letter opener spun up through the air like a knife everything is officially unburied, Jamie.
All of it was chewing, chewing at my brain like that frantic, trapped squirrel unable to bong, bong, bong.
The grandfather clock in the hall was striking the half hour the mouse ran down hickory-dickory while at the same time the doorbell had been ringing brring, brring. All these bells, but the door was probably just Mrs. Smart, back and curious for a quick check to see if all my lazy bones were present and accounted for.
I logged off, then ran out of the den to answer the door.
“Oh.” I stepped back. “You.”
“Me.” Sebastian touched his forehead in a two-fingered salute. “It’s my lunch hour, so I thought I’d come by to check on your fake hangover. Plus I wanted to ask you out to Rocco’s. It’s on the harbor. Best lunch in town. They practically catch the fish with the griddle pan.”
I hesitated, one hand working subtly to smooth down my hair. My adrenaline was sloshing from the surprise of seeing him. Should I go? Or should I be here, in case Isa returned before three?
“Say yes.” He looked so fresh and crisp, his hair like tarnished gold bristles.
“I didn’t think I’d be meeting up with you again, after what a mess I was last night.”
“Maybe I’m a sucker for your drama. And you sure bring it.” Squinting slightly, with his thumbs stuck in his belt loops, and his sunny, extravagant smile tuned in to me alone, Sebastian made last night seem funny, like nothing. And if this guy was willing to give me a break on last night, I’d be glad to give myself a break, too.
And then, to my dismay, Milo. He’d located a T-shirt and shoes, and raced up from behind to stand on the bottom tread of the porch steps. “Oooh, Jamie’s got a boyfriend.”
I refocused on Sebastian’s eyes—a speckled amber, by the light of day—while studiously ignoring Milo. And those ears, had I noticed Sebastian’s exceptionally cute ears last night? Because they were adorable, tipping out just slightly on the ends so that the sun glinted through the cartilage, giving him a sweetly ethereal, star-boy quality.
“Listen, I need a ride over to Stonyfield.” Milo took the remaining couple of steps so that we were all at level gaze. He stood with arms crossed, and I knew he was flexing his biceps. It was almost sweet if I hadn’t been so annoyed. “I got selected to play in the junior golf tournament, and, uh, I wanted to get some practice in. Gimme a lift?”
Sebastian just raised his eyebrows. He didn’t want to, I could tell. He wouldn’t even break eye contact with me. Was still waiting for my answer, which said it all. Milo could try all he wanted, but he was just a kid. And a pest—who was best left ignored, as Emory had put it.
“Speak now or I’m taking that as a yes,” said Milo, whining slightly, but undeterred. “So we’ll go in Dad’s car?”
There was no arguing it. Milo was a real force, not the type to go quietly now that he was here, especially if he sensed resistance. And Sebastian was waiting for me to decide what to do.
“Take it as a yes,” I said to Milo.
Then, to Sebastian, “We’ll borrow Miles’s car. Let me get the keys, plus my flops. Okay by you?”
“Aw, chicken. You’re just scared of Bonnie’s four-speed horsepower,” he teased. “But yeah, that’s fine by me.”
“Two seconds,” I said, returning his smile, which seemed almost dangerously contagious. “Be right back.”
SEVENTEEN
Officially, Milo’s niggling presence was not going to bother me. He could smirk and undermine and be disdainful all he wanted, but I’d resolved to keep my cool and hold my own.