They get in line behind Veda, who uses her Imprint to check out her selections. She’s nearly out the door when she turns around, bag in hand, hand on hip. Hiram hasn’t checked out a book in years and fumbles through the process. The instructions are confusing. He’s slow, times out the machine twice, and the line behind them grows. Antaris starts shuffling anxiously. Veda sighs and slides in between him and the machine.
“Not atallsurprised you’ve never been to a public library.” She taps through the prompts and scans her finger. The receipt prints. She hands it to him, grumbling, “You better return them on time.”
Words dry in his mouth when he realizes how close she is.
Close enough to see the browns in her eyes settle on him. Close enough to see her swallow. A flyaway curl beckons, but Hiram isn’t crazy enough to tuck it behind her ear.
The person behind them clears their throat.
Antaris walks between them as they exit. Veda’s motorcycle is parked in the opposite direction of their car. Antaris peers up at Veda and waves bashfully, earning him another smile that dies when Veda notices Hiram once more.
She walks away without a word. Hiram thinks that’s the end of it until Antaris hands him the books and bolts after her. Confused and intrigued, Hiram watches as his son catches up.
At first, Veda is startled. Then she places her books on the seat of her bike and kneels before him.
Hiram can’t stop staring.
At her. Atthem.
Antaris is usually hard to read, but not now. He hangs on her every word in a way Hiram has never seen with anyone else.How has Veda earned this kind of trust so quickly?And, in turn, he wonders the same about her. There’s warmth in her eyes where Hiram has only seen coldness. What does she know about his son that he doesn’t?
When Veda lifts a finger while speaking, it looks like reassurance. About what? Hiram’s stomach churns. Antaris gently taps her finger twice. As his son walks back, Veda’s dark eyes catch him across the lot, silently warning him to stay away.
Hiram responds with a small smile, quietly rejecting her unspoken demand.
It’s too late.
She holds the key to understanding his son.
Nine
Antaris isn’t in his usual place.
After searching the school, growing frantic, Veda finds him kneeling on the balcony. He’s staring out at the cluster of swaying trees near the garden, face pressed between the two railings he grips tightly. She doesn’t know what he’s looking at, but it’s a lonely sight. Veda steps beside him, trying to see what’s captured his attention, but there’s nothing obvious. Antaris sits back on his heels, visibly distressed.
“What’s wrong?”
He opens his mouth, and Veda’s heart stops. It doesn’t resume its regular rhythm until he closes his eyes, defeated, clutching the little cat pendant he wears.
“You want to talk, but you can’t,” she concludes.
His pitiful nod stirs the hopelessness she felt early on.
“What’s holding you back?”
He looks around before rushing to the exterior wall, touching it, then looking up. Veda doesn’t understand. When he returns, she simply offers her hand. “Show me what you’re looking at.”
Trust is his hesitant fingers, squirming uncertainty, solidifying into a firm grip. Rain begins to fall as they walk toward the garden. He’s shaking, and Veda’s concern crests until he stops and stares at her, insistent. A soft mewling cry pierces the wind. She looks to her left and right before hearing it again.
“Is that . . . ?”
She follows the sound as it grows louder, closer, until they spot the source. A tiny, wet kitten is huddled at the base of a bush, crying in distress.
“How did you hear this?”
Before she can move or warn him to be careful—kids aren’t always safe around frightened animals—Antaris is on his knees in the wet grass, curling a finger in front of the kitten’s nose. It sniffs, allowing Antaris to gently wrap it in his school jacket. He focuses on the kitten, and the only sounds are raindrops and his soft shushing, as if soothing a fussy baby. Veda is transfixed by his compassion, watching the way the kitten settles, its distress waning. Antaris looks nervous, like he’s done something wrong.
“You’re doing great,” she reassures him, and he relaxes. “The kitten is lost. Its mother might be nearby. We shouldn’t take it.”
