“Do you recognize this boy?” he says, pointing at the prone body without even looking at it.
“No, sir.”
“No.” His jaw clenches. “But he reminds you of someone.”
I hesitate. Tremors threaten, and I will them away. Anderson’s gaze is so intense I can hardly meet his eyes.
I glance again at the boy’s sleeping face.
“Yes, sir.”
Anderson’s eyes narrow. He waits for more.
“Sir,” I say quietly. “He reminds me of you.”
Unexpectedly, Anderson goes still. Surprise rearranges his expression and suddenly, startlingly—
He laughs.
It’s a laugh so genuine it seems to shock him even more than it shocks me. Eventually, the laughter settles into a smile. Anderson shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the window frame. He stares at me with something resembling fascination, and it’s such a pure moment, a moment so untainted by malice that he strikes me, suddenly, as beautiful.
More than that.
The sight of him—something about his eyes, something about the way he moves, the way he smiles— The sight of him suddenly stirs something in my heart. Ancient heat. A kaleidoscope of dead butterflies kicked up by a brief, dry gust of wind.
It leaves me feeling sick.
The stony look returns to his face. “That. Right there.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger. “That look on your face. What was that?”
My eyes widen. Unease floods through me, heating my cheeks.
For the first time, I falter.
He moves swiftly, charging toward me so angrily I wonder at my ability to remain steady. Roughly, he takes my chin in his hand, tilts up my face. There are no secrets here, this close to him. I can hide nothing.
“Now,” he says, his voice low. Angry. “Tell me now.”
I break eye contact, trying desperately to gather my thoughts, and he barks at me to look at him.
I force myself to meet his eyes. And then I hate myself, hate my mouth for betraying my mind. Hate my mind for thinking at all.
“You— You are extremely handsome, sir.”
Anderson drops his hand like he’s been burned. He backs away, looking, for the first time—
Uncomfortable.
“Are you—” He stops, frowns. And then, too soon, anger clouds his expression. His voice is practically a growl when he says, “You are lying to me.”
“No, sir.” I hate the sound of my voice, the breathy panic.
His eyes sharpen. He must see something in my expression that gives him pause, because the anger evaporates from his face.
He blinks at me.
Then, carefully, he says: “In the middle of all of this”— he waves around the room, at the sleeping figure hooked up to the machines—“of all the things that could be going through your mind, you were thinking . . . that you find me attractive.”
A traitorous heat floods my face. “Yes, sir.”
